Rescue
by Rose Mello
Summary: SPOILER ALERT FOR: SHERLOCK HOLMES; AGoS;  Begins at the scene where Moriarty tortures Sherlock, running through both Holme's and Watson COMPLETE! SEQUEL UP!
1. Chapter 1

I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK HOLMES OR ANY OF IT'S CHARACTERS!

My first PROPER Fanfic! Please go easy ;)

Enjoy!

He felt his pulse run quick as the officer before him crumbled in a heap on the floor, writhing in pain as crimson painted his chest. It took Watson only a moment to realise there was something deeper, someone was watching. He quickly rolled to the side and rolled to the closest cover possible, catching his breath as his back met with the cold, hard steel.

_What now...ugh, damn it! _He thinks, wandering what course of action to take. He hears warning shots fired and feels a light vibration on the pillar, hurriedly making his decision. He pulls out his only weapon of defence, his trusty pistol, then with one swift movement he turns, only slightly, to his side when raging bullets zoom past him, extremely too close for comfort.

He turns again, preparing to fire, but once more the attacker beats him to it. He winces and quickly retreats as the seemingly-never ending bullets take to a temporary halt.

_What do I do... there must be some logical plan... damn it Holmes, this is your entire fault! _He attempts to find an escape route, somewhere to run, and with any luck, get away. He takes a breath and looks around... he knows that it would be almost impossible to run to the sides, as he had roughly discovered that the offender on the other side is definitely one not to be taken lightly...

_I should at least get an idea of his position, which might do me some good..._he takes, another deep breath before finally realising- _there's music playing... _loud music is playing in the background, an old classic tune... _oh this can't be good... what have you gotten us into Holmes... _his thoughts rush through his mind again as he contemplates his next moves on discovering the other's location. _Guess I'll just have to be quick and sharpen my sight. _He shakes his head and twists to side, more ammunition flies his way, he draws his weapon an attempts to fire when-

_AHHH!_

He pulls back quickly, his eyes wide with disbelief. The scream that had rung out through the area was Holme's, of that he was sure, but wished he was incorrect, for the scream that had erupted was that of a tortured man's... no one on earth deserved to go through such pain, and Sherlock was definitely no exception.

_I have to get there fast..._

More screams of extreme suffering and hurt followed, continuously echoing as though a back-track for the already playing music itself.

One last time in urgency Watson curved himself, and then quickly withdrew. His eyes had taken in just about where the shots were coming from, and decided on one final test.

He was just about to draw the newspaper boy hat that currently lay on his head, but stopped himself when one last tormented cry blasted through his ears like a torturous sound of pain. He flinched, but nevertheless continued his task. He brought the hat to his side only slight, and dragged it back in lightning speed when he felt a shot fly right threw it's centre.

_Damn... there's no way I can out-run this guy..._

His eyes were wide once more. He clenched his teeth as all the music died away, thankfully, and turned his head upward as if to find the key to his answer there.

The dark pitch-black sky was certainly not helping, but as he was about to give up in vain something caught his eye...

Ear muffs hanging from some sort of wire...

_Why would there be Earmuffs there? Unless..._

He whipped himself around and to his great thankfulness and luck, was none-other than a very dangerous and peril, not to mention extremely useful in this situation, canon.

_Oh just my luck!_

His eyes lit up in great triumph and appreciation as his lips found their way into a smirk. _No time to waste. _He acted quickly. Before him was a ladder, luckily it seemed stable, which lead and connected to the sever threatening weapon. He closed his eye lids for a moment, then without second though, charged forward. He hastily reached the ladder, without striking any unwanted attention.

One foot in front of another, he began to climb, and climb. It didn't take very long, and sooner rather than later he was at the top.

His eyes scanned around the area as he found the same wire with the Earmuffs on them. He immediately reached forth with his hand, after leaning forward slightly, and finally attained the ear-wear. With another swift movement, they were off the fire and onto his ears.

_Hang on there Holmes, hang on, I'm almost there..._

He took in another gulp of air before pushing both his arms forward and after feeling the khaki coloured, old and torn cover of the weapon, pulling it off as fast he could, and watching it sink to the bottom of the pillar holding the warhead up. He took one last glance at the ground beneath him, before securing his Earmuffs, and then lightly crouching, and grabbing the thick rope that lead to the canon.

_I can do this..._

He held onto the rope securely with two slightly shaking hands, twisted to the side, and carefully but not too slowly began aiming the weapon. A little to the side, he remembered, reminding himself of where his attacker had last been, then a little up, just right on the lighting tower...

_There we go..._

He cleared his throat before finally tugging on the rope with as much force and power as he could manage, and then heard the satisfying and loud thud of an ultra dangerous weapon going off. The blow had him losing the rope and almost losing all balance itself, but fortunately, he managed to stay upright as he saw the large, completely solid, iron canon ball launch itself onto the gleaming light tower.

Watson realised too late, however, where that tower was shedding its light. Below it, a little to the right, was what seemed like empty storage units or rooms... it also seemed like it was where the music and loud screams had erupted from earlier.

He watched in complete angst and utter horror at the place his best friend, and practically brother, was most likely at, become crushed under the overwhelming weight of the tall, over-looming building, leaving nothing but debris and a thick space of dust.

He rushed down the ladder as fast as his legs would take him, and hurriedly began to jog as speedy and expeditious as followed, whilst a million thoughts over flooded his mind;

_What if he was hurt? Well of course he was hurt! Why don't you try getting tortured in the most inhuman way possibly, then have a damn building falling on you!_

He shook his head of all thoughts, trying his best to clear his mind as he rushed forward, but failed miserably. The thought of the great Sherlock Holmes getting hurt in such a devastating way would be too much to take. Simply too much.

His breath was coming out in loud, long gasps, as he begun to tire from the long trek, however he would not give up.

_I will not give in!_

He raced faster than before then halted once at the scene. Concrete lay all over as the smell of dust and dirt clawed its way to his senses. He hadn't even noticed that not only had his hands begun to tremble, but the rest of his body too.

_I will find him. Alive... I will... I must._

In the entire midst of pure, complete and utter devastation and desperation, he had started to call out his close friend's name.

"HOLMES! HOLMES!" He leapt over some fallen pieces of what he assumed was the roof, and continued his search.

It only took him a matter of seconds.

As he looked down, he saw nothing but the beaten and hurt face of his friend.

"HOLMES!" He yelled relief passing through him like a giant wave, bigger than any tsunami. He promptly kneeled beside him. Quickly moving his hands to the debris which had unfortunately tumbled upon his partner, he threw of everything which lay on the pained person.

Watson took a closer look at him, only to discover blood. A hook was embedded in his shoulder, deeply, as was connected to a rope which Watson only assumed had also lead to the ceiling.

_Sick bastard..._

He cursed, shaking his head. Holmes had lost too much blood as it was, meaning they had to get out of here, and quickly. He took sight of his friend a finale time before positioning his hands over his chest, and with one powerful pull, the hook was out of the other's flesh. a wince however, did not fail to escape Sherlock's mouth as his eyes fluttered open through under his ruffled up and messy hair hair,

"It's always nice to see you Watson"

"How did you know I would find you?"

"You didn't find me. You collapsed a building on me."

And there you have it ladies and gentlemen.

Please review if you'd like me to make this a multi-chapter story!

Although I'm not sure if it's that good, but hey, a girl can always hope ;)


	2. Chapter 2

IMPORTANT ARTHUR'S NOTE THING AT THE BOTTOM!

WOW. Sherlock's POV is finished! I must say I enjoyed writing this however felt bad for hurting him so much, but then again, I only re-wrote a scene, not the movie :) PLEASE REVIEW AND TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT IN THE FOLLOWING CHAPTERS! Oh and this is a bit longer than the first chappie!

The small room was dark, the only light illuminating it shone throne a fair-sized glass window to the opposite of Holmes. He sat, hands folded, chin up, head straight, and eyes oh-so-very alert. He watched as Moriarty moved and stood by the pane, his fingers laced together before placing both his hands by his sides.

The aura grew more dangerous by the second as Sherlock did nothing but shift slightly in the uncomfortable hard chair he was seated in. Carefully, his eyes trailed the Professor's movements, until he took a light breath and finally spoke.

"A trout is... perhaps my favourite..." Almost immediately Holmes knew this was going to be a challenge. He forced himself to focus and waited for the older man to continue, "A fishermen grows weary of trying to catch a loose fish..." he paused once more, and Holmes had only a moment to collect his thoughts,

_A loose fish? _He noticed how Moriarty kept his stance, his pupils never wandering on the scene outside, _Watson! No, I mustn't concern myself; I must find a way out..._

"So he muddies the water" he spoke, "confuses the fish" and Sherlock knew very well what was to happen, even before the unmistakable ring of a shot firing, no matter how light it might sound through the distance. More shots were fire, until they came to a sudden halt. Sherlock took a deep breath, his palms, as he noted, we beginning to sweat only slightly.

_So he's missed the first few times. Good job Watson. _He could easily tell the ammunition had missed their intended target, thankfully, because he was sure that that target had to be none-other than Dr. John Watson himself. Sherlock felt an unusual ting of guilt for putting his friend in such danger, completely dismissing the fact that not only had he thrown Watson's new wife into the water meters and meters below not too long ago, or the fact that he had utterly destroyed John's plans for a romantic Honeymoon with Mary, or even the fact that he most came on board to solve this case almost out of his will.

All Holmes could do at the given time was drift his eye sight to the right, noting that there lay nothing but entirely empty space, then to his left, discovering the same fact repeated. His squinted his gaze and realized that this was of course the first floor and it was most likely an abandoned storage compartment where Moriarty had planned for him to be at this exact moment, whilst John on the other side, having barely any chances of survival due to his not so fortunate luck. But by any chance, if they did make it out alive, Holmes had noted that he would apologize to Watson.

_Well not directly of course. I'm sure old Watson boy will figure it out eventually..._

His ears perked as he heard a very light and almost inaudible sigh calming from the other man, Sherlock braced himself as he was sure Moriarty would continue with his riddles and tales.

"He doesn't realise until too late that it has swam into a trap." It didn't take Holmes a moment to know for a definite fact that the lecturer was not just speaking of Watson, whom Sherlock was sure was still attempting to find a way to outrun his attacker without very high chances, but himself also.

He turned his head to the side where a small noise had erupted, but just as he did so, he felt something prod against his shoulder for a split second, before completely impaling him.

His eyes widened reasonably and his pupils dilated just as much. He felt his jaw drop and released an uncontrolled gasp as he realised only too late what was taking place. An excruciating pain thwarted his body as the blade was pushed further into his flesh, whilst his world had begun to spin considerably thanks to the new found unbearable pain. Holmes hands immediately flew to grasp the blade only to find out it was not a blade, but rather something more of a hook. His sweated palm clutched the metal as if it were his only life source and before he noticed his; he was being pulled out of his chair. He flew into the air, and as he was being hulled further and further up, the sharp end of the hook kept tunnelling its way through his soft tissue.

A scream of utter and complete torture could be heard throughout the small room... it took him only a moment to realise that that very suffering-filled cry had exploded through his own throat. More screams burst through his lips until the hook and rope became slow and steady, barely moving.

His fingers held on tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white at the simultaneous time as his breaths began to emit as loud, short and fast pained gasps. He continued to concentrate on his breathing rather than the agonizing pain flaring through his system, attempting to calm himself down.

_Oh dear god... calm down Holmes! Just breathe!_

His breaths were now lower and much shallower and slower. He silently thanked his inner conscience for helping him, though now he figured; _I'm hanging, literally hanging, from a hook to hold onto dear life whilst everything is placed in the hands of someone most likely madder and more insane than myself as my only hope of survival, being Watson, is outside getting shot at with almost certainly about as much chance to escape death as I..._

His uneven yet better than before breaths were the only sound echoing of the walls of the dreaded room, until-

He heard the undeniable screech of some sort of amplifier being put in place. His eyes finally moved from the distressingly white ceiling above him and over to where his torturer stood, playing the instantly recognised classic tune of 'Die Forelle' extremely loudly.

_He's playing this through the entire area... he is DEFINITLY madder than myself..._

Holmes was unsure though of how he was in so much torment, and pure pain yet was still able to keep up with his own thoughts. Especially at this moment. He became aware of the pathetic dying sound for breathing he was making but was also aware that he had not such control over it. Nor did he have any certain control over the immense light trembling rocking his body- but yet- for once- he did not care, neither did he care for the fact that he had begun to move once again, as if through a circular circuit...

But all he could think about his the tremendous damage taking place. All he was able to notice was his breathing, the loud thump of his heart, the undying pain, and the fast blood rushing through his veins. His eyes begun to flutter until he heard a voice- over the music- singing along.

Moriarty's undeniable voice rung through his ears as Holme's shut his eyes for a moment, trying to block every single thing out...

He glanced down and noticed that the psychotic Professor had stopped singing and stepped over to him, where he pushed his body back, then walked over to him once more as he swung, and repeated the process with double the force. This time Sherlock could not clench his teeth, nor could he swallow his screams. He let out an enormously disturbed scream followed by more, as his body his rocked further than closer than further again.

His eyes were unquestionably wider, as was his mouth. He tasted the far too familiar taste of copper in his mouth as he felt a shiver run down his spine. He could not contain the next screeched cry as his entire form was pulled down, driving the hook deeper into his skin. He was released again but only for a moment-

Moriarty grabbed both his legs up to the knee and twisted him around as if he were some old broken rag doll. He could feel his back arch in torture as more yells of desperation and wholesome hurt fired through his lips. He couldn't feel it ending. It was as if he was stuck in hell, a place where only pain and agony existed, a place run by a tormentor too sick in the head not to fear.

He was turned and twisted more, and glanced down through his sheer devastation and saw large contempt eyes meeting his with an even larger ill, wrong smile to match. It looked like the ghastly Professor was dances away happily, as if it were the best day of his entire life. The thought made Holmes shiver- only if he could.

Right at this very moment he was not in control of his actions or emotions. Right at this very moment he was stranded in a world which contained nothing but pain and death as a better alternative- but he knew that would be too easy.

He was able to distinguish the fact that his screams were also echoed through not only the little dark room, but the whole surrounding space outside too.

He was aware that he was placing Watson under pain too, acknowledging the fact that Watson would hate himself if he never made it in time to save Holmes and for that Sherlock apologised in his mind and through his unbearably hurt yells.

Holmes was swung to the back of the circuit, leaving the sharp edge to dice him, making the slash wound even bigger. After one final scream from him he was pushed, prodded, pulled, twisted or turned further. Sherlock held on as tightly as if could through his sweated not to mention awfully bloodied palms and fingers. His breathing was more jagged and laboured as he lightly swayed from side to side, both his mind and body ready to give up at any given moment.

He rocked until the rope the hook clung to was released, and another helpless cry left his throat. His back met the ground exceedingly hard, sending another wave of fresh torment through his whole being. His lids were shut, his arms by his side to the level of his head, and his chest bleeding heavily and leaving a fresh pool of precious crimson blood beneath him.

He could not focus on anything other than being alive and living, rather than so easily succumbing to the unbearable pain and leaving this world, but he couldn't do that to Watson.

_I... can't... leave him... or this case... just yet..._

He took note, even through his torture that the music had stopped. He knew what the next part was, and he figured it was about to come.

He eyes fluttered open to be welcomed by Moriarty's own pair.

"Let's try this again shall we?"

_No... More..._

"To whom did you send" he paused for a moment, "the telegram?" he asked calmly.

Holmes couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't bear that again. Not that, not again.

"To whom?" Sherlock just breathed and didn't answer him. He saw Moriarty's eyes flicker, and before he knew it, he was on top of him.

His hand grip the hook still embedded within Sherlock and pushed it further, earning an unwilling gasp from Holmes. His other hand flew to his bloodied wrist and grabbed it tightly, bending down further so that his ear was near Sherlock's own.

Holmes turned his head as much as he could, attempting to control his breathing, before whispering ever so lightly,

"To my brother... Mycroft"

He could see, or more _feel _a smile etching itself on the evil older man's face. He felt Moriarty lift himself up, as Sherlock himself turned his head to face him again, hating the elder man's voice by the second,

"I've just got one more question for you"

_There IS only one question left in his sick twisted game..._

"Which one of us is the fishermen- and which the trout?"

He suddenly heard a loud bang, and unmistakable sound of crashing concrete, and Moriarty's face scrunching up in confusion. Even in his state, Holmes managed to figure out what was going on before the other, and rolled to the side hoping his luck would help him, for that was all he could us at this very second.

It was dark. It was dark, until Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes to the best possible sight- concrete and debris were fallen all around, the smell of dust and dirt lingered in the air and then it all came rushing back to him.

_Well I do believe he got what he merited. Well done Watson._

He felt a smirk rise to his lips, shutting his eyes before he would've met utter oblivion, yet was shaken by a voice- a voice belonging to John Watson. A hand was placed on his chest and a wince escaped him as the hook he came to despise so much in such a short time was freed from his flesh.

"It's always good to see you Watson"

"How did you know I would find you?"

"You didn't find me. You collapsed a building on me."

HELLO! I uploaded this less than 24 hours after the first chapter! I was thinking of doing a missing scene for the next chapter( that should've totally been in the movie) about Watson taking care of Holmes! What do you guys think? I WILL write a multi-chapter fic but whether it will be a new case or following the movie with added scenes is what you get to decided in either a review or a message! Thanks so much for those who continued :D tell me what you think so I can get on to writing the next chapter and uploading it within 1-3 days?

Thanks,

Rose!


	3. Chapter 3

**THANKS to all the reviewers! You guys are awesome! And a shout out to MistroStrings – thanks for the great advice!**

**MWAHAHA. This is the scene you've all been waiting for... WAIT! It's starts at the forest then leads to the train scene because before I wrote this I figured it would be too short to write JUST the train scene... Yeah, turned out I was wrong ;) anywho... ENJOY! TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT! **

Rescue Part III

**WATSON.**

The darkened sky was lit enough to light their path through the rough terrain. They were struggling, to say the least, at keeping up with what chaos embedded itself around them. Bullets were fired, all only narrowly missing their intended targets and splintering the old dim bark of the surrounding trees. The loud zooming ammunition did not stop, not for a moment. They continued to run, as fast as they could manage, just to get to the end, just to find a way out. Their legs threatened to collapse under them at any given moment even as they travelled the quickest they had ever.

Watson could hear both Sherlock's and Sizma's ragged and laboured breaths syncing with his own tired long gasps. He could tell that none of them could go on much longer, for their feet were pained, bruised and splintered. Their stamina was faltering immensely also, keeping their chances of escape no higher than the minimum.

More ammunition was flared, and this time Watson could say for certain that death may just be the easier option. Ducking twice and zooming to the left, he only just missed a bullet which could have created an indeed very fatal wound.

Would fly all over the place, landing a fair sized piece to scratch his leg rather painfully. He turned lightly only to see Holmes in a similar condition to him, only worst. He could tell his friend was faltering, as he was sure the large blood loss had taken effect. He watched as Holmes clutched his chest, almost tripped but never the less kept running. More explosions rocked and shook the ground hard, sending even some of the attackers to pause for a moment themselves.

John continued to run, faster and faster by the minute but saw an obstacle in his way. The quite large trunk of an old tree stuck out on an awkward position, forcing him to take a leap of the mangled heap of nature. Just as he did so, however, a bullet zoomed right past his size, grazing it deeply but not too seriously. He let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding and sustained the scamper to safety on the other side.

He tripped over another large branch but managed to revive his balance and kept his footing. He noticed that his side burned but didn't dare look at what he was sure was blood. He watched as Holmes himself fought to regain his stability over the uneven withering grounds. More explosions went off as more ammo was released from the enemy, however the others fought back.

Several pulled their pistols and other guns and fought of the enemy, bringing more than just a few crumbling to ground in agony.

_Damn!_

Watson cursed as another one of their men was brought down by an incoming bullet from the opposing attackers. He watched as Sizma look back in sadness and pain yet did not stop but rather kept up her pace with the others as they continued to flee the war like zone.

The bullets took a halt, even if only for a moment, but it was at that particular moment, that John Watson knew something was up. And something dangerous.

_More explosives?_

But none came. The ache in his side had begun to numb slightly which was lucky and not surprising. At the side of his head a light warm sticky trail of crimson blood stained his cheek to his chin. He did his best to ignore it all, dumping the sick feeling down to the bottom of his stomach.

_They would not just give up..._

All that could be heard was the undeniable jagged, rough and harsh breathing of his companions and himself as well as their loud rapid and large steps which echoed through the forest, until-

One of the loudest bangs he'd ever heard rang through the large field. He didn't even have to turn to tell that it had already taken down a few over-sized trees by quickly raging through them.

It imploded.

All he could feel was an unnerving sense of pain and danger, whilst all he could see was pitch-black darkness. He felt his body being hit by an invisible force stronger than any he had ever felt before. He was pushed down into the ground hurtfully, his face and the rest of him meeting the cold unwelcoming, craggy dirty and soiled ground of the huge field. His breath escaped him as darkness enveloped him...

**HOLMES.**

They had sent out a missile, and an immensely strong and powerful one- that much he could tell easily as he watched the enemy fall back one by one, attempting to take the best and closest cover. They didn't have that alternative. None of them did. He could feel the hard, cold pain of his wound taking its toll stronger than it ever had before. His breaths were now emitting in diminutive, rutted intakes of oxygen as he tried his best to fill his lungs with a much air as possible. He knew they didn't have much time before the missile would reach them, in fact...

They would barely have any time at all.

In those very and entirely short, suffering filled seconds which seem rather like hours, he felt the full extent of his injuries. The deep dark crimson slash was throbbing painfully and agonizingly whilst his head felt like it had been split open by a jack-hammer. Cherry red blood slid down the side of his forehead, oozing out at an increasing rate from the top of his deep brow, gliding past his cheek and dripping down his chin. He collected his thought whilst he could in the very and extremely limited time given to do so;

_What about Watson? Or Miss Sizma? Or the others..._

Holmes felt something he had not in a very long time. That strong pang of guilt. It erupted through him like a volcano...

He could feel his sense leaving him altogether as he felt an enormously tough force pushing him to the side and rendering him unconscious- but only for a moment.

He was sure he had blacked out, because when his eyes fluttered open he was lying with his back to the tremendously uncomfortable rocky ground which had been under his feet only a matter of seconds ago. His head pounded and his vision slurred but he knew he had to get up- this was their last chance.

He pulled himself up with as much force as he could muster, but wavered when he got to his feet. His eyes trailed around him where he saw Watson and the other fighting off some of the enemy with a bit of a hard time considering what they all just went through. Holmes was trying his best to keep his thought calm and collected but he was interrupted as a nearby attacker attempting to hit him with his gun. With one swift move followed by another and another, the attacker fell to the dirt clutching a bruised and probably broken knee-cap, a dislocated shoulder, and a twisted nose whilst bearing a concussion.

All by himself, Holmes managed to take down a few of their close pursuers. He paused for a moment, his world fluttering to complete empty blackness until he forced his eyes open again. He was thankful to find that he had not fallen- because in all honesty- if he had he doubted he would be able to force himself to get up again. If he by any chance thought that his wound burned before, then it definitely was absolutely nothing compared to what he felt at the very moment. His head spun quickly, making him feel woozy and dizzy whilst it throbbed so painfully, even a sledge-hammer would definitely pale greatly in comparison. He strained himself to push a nauseas feeling, one of the highest degree, down to the pit of his stomach. As he did so, he did not mind chopping or slicing his entire shoulder off if it would wipe out the pain the dangerous slash wound was giving him.

However with much effort and pure will, he pushed all thoughts of simply giving up aside, pounding them down to darkness where he was almost certain they wouldn't dare to rise up again.

An explosion cleared all his thoughts and pushed him to his side slightly, yet it wavered him greatly. He almost fell- if it were not for the thick tree nearby. He could down the thoughts of giving up but he could not ignore the pain. With one hand holding him up against the tree and the other at his shoulder he continued to deliver short, pathetic sharp wheezes and rasps of air to keep himself if even only slightly stable.

He turned when he heard a charge, and felt and undying stabbing pain flare through his chest when an oncoming opponent jabbed his large light machine gun excruciatingly into his ribs. He did the first thing that came to his mind;

Fisting his arm he delivered a well placed blow to the other's ribs, causing him to lose concentration and close his eyes in pain momentarily. With that advantage, Holmes emptied the bullet that was to be fired into his chest and grabbed that gun. Turning it around, he launched ammo into the adversary's own uniform coated torso. Hurriedly he handed the gun to Watson who expertly shot none other than Professor Moriarty himself.

It was then that they heard the familiar rawr of the steam train just a few feet away.

And with that they ran.

**GENERAL**

The travelled as fast as their feet would take them. Step after step of seemingly never concluded nature. Tons of thin uneven branches broke below their ferocious steps as they hoped they would live to see another sunrise.

The carriage door of the train swung open with high force. Sizma and the other aid jumped on, whilst Watson, Sherlock and another collaborator rushed to get on. Sherlock's arm hung over Watson's shoulder as he helped push him onto the train with enough strength.

"Come on!" he yelled to Michael, who was only lightly lagging behind.

Watson made it with the help of the others, tumbling in an unceremonious manner. A sudden shot was fired and the only person whom was not lucky enough to make it, crumbled upon his painful wound and eventually fell behind;

"MICHAEL! MICHAEL!" The call however went unanswered as the ride continued to leave to now dead form of a great aide and an even better friend behind to the clutches of death.

The train continued to zoom across the area, with everybody huddled inside, safe from the dangers outside. It had been a short while since the very narrow and fortunate escape...

Sizma's good friend lay with his back to the back of the carriage, leaning and staring to the dusty terrain outside in deep thought. Sizma held Sherlock's head in her lap whilst singing an old gypsy tuned song, as Watson completed his attempted at bandaged the bloodied wound on his side after finishing Holme's own.

It all happened in a very fast motion, but one moment, Sherlock Holme's eyes were opened...

And the next...

They weren't.

Sizma looked down expected to e greeted by the brilliant detective's large, chocolate eyes and a soft smirk at his lips, however she stopped her song when she found that they were closed, and his mouth slightly ajar yet in a firm line. Her eyes widened in fear as her hand immediately flew to his neck to check for pulse.

There was none.

She placed her hand over his mouth hoping and pleading to feel warm breath on her fingers, yet it was to no avail.

"He's not breathing!" she said, her tone panicky and feverish.

Watson's own pair of pupils met hers as he heard those greatly feared words. His mouth hung wide for a moment, before rushing over to Holmes and hurriedly kneeling beside him. He placed two shaky fingers at his neck and took a deep horrified intake of breath when all he felt was cold, motionless skin beneath his nails.

"Cradle his head!" He yelled not too loudly towards her and rushed back to where he was first for a moment, "raise his legs!" he instructed the other man in more of a rushed and panicked tone.

Watson's gaze was desperate and more afraid as he spoke again, this time Holmes more than anyone,

"Bloody hell, you will not die on me!" he tried to keep his voice calm but he could not. His palms were fisted and on Holme's heart. He began to pound. One. Nothing. Two. Nothing. Three. Nothing.

_BREATHE HOLMES!_

He checked his pulse again quickly, _please, please, please. _Yet still nothing. _No... NO!_

"I'm not gonna make this easy on you!" he began to pulsate his chest again and again. "Come on!" his breaths were uneven now and the worry and fright was clear and evident in his voice. "Come on!" he kept on going. Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill at any second. "Come on!" he whispered more to Sherlock himself.

_NO. NO! You do not get to go that easy you self-centred scoundrel!_

He checked his pulse again.

_Nothing..._

Watson brought his fist down on Holmes chest and continued pounding,

"COME ON!"

_NO! DAMN IT HOLMES! WAKE UP!_

His tears were more than clear as they shone through his bright orbs, his clenched teeth and desperate look.

"I know you can hear me you selfish bastard!" the thumps on the dead man's body continued from his best friend. From someone who was practically his brother, through something thicker than blood itself. "COME ON!"

His fist came down in a punch on Holme's heart with as much strength as he could.

"I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME YOU BASTARD!" He yelled his voice breaking. He could feel Sizma's arms around him, telling him to stop, telling him it was okay.

_It's not okay. It's not okay... please Sherlock... _

A tear escaped his eyes, and he let it fall. Part of his heart shattered and he could not find the will to speak. He closed his eyes as more crystal drops broke free. His face scrunched up in complete desperation and devastation whilst a croaked sort of broken sound erupted from his throat. Sizma hugged him tightly, her own tears spilling as the other aid placed a hand on his shoulder. He let out a choked sob as he was released, still unable to find his voice. He had just lost one of the most important things in his life. The desolation hit him like a tornado as he was unable to tear his eyes away from his true friend, from his brother.

_If I can't save you Holmes, maybe you can find a way in that genius mind of yours to save yourself..._

It took him a moment, then in one splendid motion,

"His wedding gift!" opening his jacket he pulled out the case. Ripping it open his pulled out a syringe with a strange toned liquid in it and without a second thought plunged it into his heart. He pulled it out, his heart breaking once more as Sherlock had still not moved...

_He's gone... he's really g-_

His thoughts were cuts short as a sharp gulp or oxygen was pulled from his best friend. Sherlock lifted up his head in one swift motion, let out a strangled yell, sat up and suddenly charged toward the end of the small area, hitting his head even harder, yet keeping his footing.

They could only watch in happiness and pure joy as he turned to them before mumbling something unintelligible and speaking,

"You and Mary and Gladstone and I'm at the restaurant." He spoke feverishly, then continued to mumble all too quick for anyone to catch, however they did make out 'tiny pony was very swell! A master fork and his hoof and he turned on me!' they let out breaths that none knew were being drawn. Watson walked over to him and carefully took his wrist, pulling down for he had been making drastic movement with it. "What have you missed?" he asked questioningly.

Watson held up the syringe he had stab Holmes at the heart with,

"You're wedding present" he simply spoke, letting go of Sherlock's wrist which flew to grasp the skin upon his heart and felt a light, steady yet fast and painful rhythm of thumps.

"Well whose been DANCING ON MY CHEST!" He yelled at no one in particular as Watson walked behind him,

"Me" he moved to place the syringe down.

"Why is my ankle so itchy?" Holmes wandered aloud, grasping everyone's attention. Nevertheless, it was the doctor, whom answered simply,

"Because you have a large piece of woof sticking out of it" he said as if it were no big deal at all. He met Holme's confused eyes for a moment before turning and pointing to his ankle. Sherlock managed to calm down slightly and attempted to stabilise his breath for a second or two before giving up once more.

"Good lord..." he shook his head, "You Thomas" Sherlock said, pointing at Sizma's friend and helper, "I have an important job to discuss with you." He cleared his throat, "Remind me of it later" he said.

"Sit down" the doctor instructed.

_Yep, he's still confused _Watson thought light-heartedly whilst ushering him back to the opposing side to sit. He walked along with him and made sure that Holmes would _stay _seated before he himself took a seat near his feet.

"Drink this" he gave him some liquefied medicine to help with clearing his throat and relaxing him from the pain, even if only slightly. "Have to get that out before it turn septic" he told himself more than anyone else then began to lay Holme's feet out straight and still.

Once Watson was seated comfortable at Sherlock's feet, Holme's pointed and accusing finger at him-

"Did you call me a _selfish bastard!_" he gave him a hard glare that would have surely scared anyone if it weren't John Watson himself.

"Probably" he answered simply, placed his friend's feet on his lap and positioning his fingers at the tip of the piece of wood lodged at his ankle.

"Oh..." Holmes replied wearily. His tired eyes gazing at what Watson was doing until he fully registered what was happening. "Just leave it in!" he yelled, but nothing happened. All he felt was an impossible pain at his ankle, "leave it in!" but it too late. The piece was freed from his flesh and it hurt. Badly, if Holmes were to say so himself.

He watched at Watson held the piece in front of his eyes before placing it done again. Holmes let out a pain and uncomfortable moan before relaxing again.

"Oh you are a scoundrel" he spoke whilst collecting his breaths,

"Be nice" Watson offered him a look before beginning to stitch it. There were a few minutes of an entirely needed and comfortable silence between the four of them until,

"Sorry you didn't go to Brighton." Holmes said quietly to Watson, whom knew that Sherlock had meant every single word he had just spoken. It meant a lot to Watson that Sherlock actually apologised but also took him by surprised. It was only rare that Holmes make such an effort.

Watson looked into the distance, before the bandaging his ankle lightly then tightening only slightly, and then he turned his watch to Holmes.

"Me too"

The odd silence continued yet it spoke many levelled volumes between them.

"I think we should go home" Watson spoke quickly. _He's definitely going to argue that... well it's worth a shot..._

"I conquer" now _that_ he was not expecting. He quickly fixated his eyes on the detective's own before; "Let's go home... via Switzerland"

_I knew it was too good to be true._

Watson just smiled to himself as Holmes continued,

"What better way to start a war at a peace summit?" Holme's eyes were closed now and he was ready for some peace, whilst Watson just smirked to himself, "We'll drop in and see my brother"

"I'm sure he's missed you"

**NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE UP SOON! TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT IN THE FOLLOWING ONES! :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**THIS IS THE 'FIRST' MISSING SCENE!**

**I'm sorry if this disappoints... part of the next chapter isn't in the movie too though. **

**Hi again. I'm not too sure if this chapter boring... not sure how it turned out really... the medical stuff in here I am DEFINITLY NOT sure of, sorry for any mistakes... please enjoy... I WILL HAVE BETTER MISSING scenes along the story, I just felt this one had to be in it even though it's boring for the story to progress... please do review, otherwise there not much point in writing... thanks. Oh AND what do you want the next chapter to be about? Well the next scene obviously... anyways, leave you interesting and creative reviews!**

Rescue IIII

"Lie still Holmes! And don't scratch your wound!"

Sherlock groaned with a roll of his eyes to match his mood. He currently lay in one of the guest at Mycroft's mansion, whilst Watson stood above him, poking and prodding at his injury as he simultaneously complained about Holme's rash actions, the consequences of those rash actions, and the final results of the consequences lead by those rash actions to begin with. Even though the bed he lay on was soft, and comfortable- allowing him the much needed rest he truly deserved, Holme's could think of only so many places he would rather be at this certain moment.

"One last time Holmes! Lie still or I will jab you with the nearest needle! And I don't care _what's_ in it!" he yelled, as he finished examining the wound. Sherlock noted he had a rather concerned look on his face as his eyes trailed of the large slash shaped injury near Holme's shoulder. "Looks like it's deeper than I first thought..." he spoke aloud, but it seemed more as if he had been saying those words to himself and accidently voiced his thoughts. "This is dangerous Holmes. I have no idea how you managed to survive this long, but you're going to have to be _very _stationary right now or it's going to get worst..." he trailed off, meeting the other's eyes for a moment,

"Doesn't it always?" Sherlock mumbled, sighing in the process. "Well get on with it, will you Watson?" he asked in a rather rushed manner, his tone slightly strained.

"Holmes, are you sure you don't wish for any sedatives? It will be an excruciating process without them..." he looked up and met his gaze once more, urging him to take the better and safer option.

"Honestly, old boy, I'll be fine. I've had worst..." he slightly chocked on his words before playing it off and hoping that Watson didn't see his strange demeanour.

"Holmes! This is not a completion for can go through the most agonizing pain before screaming! It is not some damned contest! If it were I'm sure you'd win anyway, seeing as so you're so familiar with the entire topic!" He cringed at his own words and immediately regretted the harshness at which they were delivered in, yet made no attempt to draw them back.

"Believe me old friend; I've had enough pain and screaming for time being..." Holmes flinched slightly but cleared his throat and stared hard into the doctor's deep eyes. If it was possible Watson regretted his choice of words even more, however made no attempt to apologise.

"I'll begin then. I've cleaned the wound but not completely. I'm going to need to make sure that there are not splinters or dirt embedded into it. Now Holme's, I will not lie to you, this _will _hurt but not much... well not much compared the rest..." he stopped talking and pulled out some medical equipment, whilst beside him was also a jug of water and a clean cloth.

Watson carefully looked over the wound. Using the surgical equipment owned by Sherlock's own brother, Mycroft, he continued to inspect the wound vigilantly. A few minutes later, after a continuation of poking and prodding, Watson found himself lightly smiling.

"Well, I'm glad to say that there are absolutely no more splinters or dirt, meaning that you're wound is perfectly clean, the final stage of cleansing it would be making sure the outside surrounding skin is also sanitary..." he mumbled, pulling the bright white sterile cloth and light dipping is into the jug of fresh water before dabbing it around the wound itself, making sure that it was absolutely nothing but hygienic. The two didn't bother with lowly conversation and instead settles for a long drawn silence. Soon Watson was finished and the final part of remedying the wound would be complete.

"Wait a minute Holmes, I'm going to need the help of your brother for this since I'll be needing a hand to hold you down." He spoke simply, earning a groan from Holmes, "And yes, before you even bother to ask, he _does _need to be involved in this, because since you're _not _taking the painkillers I'll need some help in keeping you from thrashing around too much."

Sherlock just exhaled noisily ad just nodded. He watched as Watson walked over to the room and stepped out the door before gently closing it behind him. Holme's glanced at his wound; he wasn't even sure if it actually _needed _stitches.

_So what... it's deep but it's not __**that **__long... hmm... and why must he acquire assistance from Mycroft himself? _Holmes could only sigh in answer to his rather logical questions and decided, that whilst Watson was trekking down the mansion that he'd probably get lost anyway and take a good two times the original time of getting back, so he thought to take in his surroundings _properly._

He glanced around. The room was large, and quite classy. The wallpaper was a crimson red- he cringed slightly as he thought of the colour- whilst laced with gold at the both the top and the bottom. A grandfather clock lay to the side, made of a dark elegant brown. The bed he lay on had originally dashing gold quilts and sheet made of the finest satin- but to perform the procedure properly- Watson had assured both Sherlock and Mycroft that regular sheets be set due to the comfort of the patient and the fact that he did not want to ruin the fashionable bedding.

Holmes continued to stare around him until he caught sight of a large wardrobe to his right, made of the same wood of the clock opposing it. Other than a clearly over sized window with yet more cherry red and golden curtains illuminated the moonlight, there was nothing more to the otherwise simple room. Holmes had insisted he stay in a regular guest room rather than his brother's own, for he was sure it would have deem too large and exclusive to suit his own taste.

He waited and waited. He was sure at least five whole minutes had passed since Watson's gentle departure and he'd been anticipating his return ever since; but only because his wound, even though had stopped bleeding for the time being, had begun to itch drastically and it was extremely easy to say that it was ticking him off.

_Well hurry up Watson... _he thought to himself. His will against raising his fingers and scratching the wound was steadily decreasing, whilst his urge to relieve his itching madness was highly rising. He closed his eyes for a moment and replayed all the events that had taken place in the past few days...

His mind wandered as he tried to recall it all, yet once darkness welcomed him, all he could hear was Moriarty's harsh yet slick voice mocking him,

"Who is the fishermen... and who the trout?"

It was as if he could feel all the pain and torture from what the dark, cruel professor had put him through. His eyes snapped open almost instantly at the thought. He clenched his teeth tightly as his hand subconsciously trailed over the painful wound. And for a second, he ignored all the itchiness, all the pain and his thoughts were cleared just to the contemptuous question which played over and over in his head, until-

"Didn't I tell you not to scratch that?"

Watson's apparent voice echoed through his ears as he blocked out all dark thoughts and offered a short poorly presented smile. He saw Mycroft emerge from behind John and give a light hearted yet worried wave and added a smile to go with it.

"Brother, I believe it would be wise to listen to the doctor, after all, he does know what he's doing" his voice flared a little. Both Holmes kept eye contact for a moment- but only a moment, until Sherlock abruptly turned away,

"Well, we should be getting with this then, no?" The humour wavered from his voice but the fake and plastered smile did not however. He sunk further into the bed- if possible- and readied himself. He heard their footstep becoming closer until they were both in his line of sight. He could see that Watson was readying the surgical thread which he now held in his hands after picking up from a small tray nearby, whilst his brother positioned himself in a fitting gap between the head of the bed and the back wall where the window was, and curled his fingers around Sherlock's exposed arms, leaning in only slightly. This prevented him from moving his entire torso all together whilst also giving the doctor enough space to work comfortably on his patient.

"Holmes, are you _sure, _are you _completely positive _that you don't want anything to numb the pain?" Watson asked the younger Holmes one last time, hoping that he would miraculously change his mind.

"Positive" was the only respond he got back in return. Sighing softly Watson moved the needle to the top of the stab wound,

"Well, here I go" and with one quick movement, the thread had punctured Sherlock's skin. A sharp, hitched intake of breath was heard as Watson continued. Holme's breathing continued to become gradually more uneven and coarse, however he did not let out a single noise.

Mycroft watched as his younger sibling continued to attempt to fight of what was short to be killer pain, however decided it best not say anything and so did not comment on the situation. His hands held Sherlock in place gently, making sure that he did not move around too much. He watched as Sherlock's hands fisted in the sheets tightly, then unclench slightly, as the same course of movement took place at his teeth. The elder Holme's sibling drew a deep intake of breath himself as he felt Sherlock flinch beneath his touch since Watson as just arrived to a particularly bruised area near the centre.

The only sounds which echoed through the room were the loud, now becoming bothersome, ticking of the antique grandfather clock, the feathery slashes of the thread and needle stabbing into flesh, and Sherlock Holmes uneven breaths.

Mycroft took this time to think. Watson had told him the extent of his more youthful brother's injury. It's was why they had taken so long to get back to him, simply because Mycroft _asked _well more or so _demanded _what had happened to Sherlock, and why he was cradling a large hooked and bloodied wound that could have easily been the death of him. The doctor had explained to him, very vaguely, about what events had taken place. He was bothered yet glad that Watson hadn't gone into more detail, as he wasn't sure if he had wanted to hear more of the terrible torture that had occurred, or even listen for more detail concerning Sherlock's tormented screams. This had also lead to him being bothered; since Watson had refused to go into more precise aspects it must have been so much worse than he had let on.

He clicked out of his mind's universe though after some time of both musing and contemplating the given situation.

_I'm not going to let Sherly out of my side just yet._

He was no detective; none as good as his brother at least, but didn't need to be one to realise that not only did _Sherlock _need to rest but also his companions. He had met them abruptly at the door of his mansion, two others being with his younger sibling and the doctor. One was a woman, and the other a man. He was assured that they were the reason that both Sherlock and Watson were alive and well, although not one was _that _well. Upon their arrival, he had instructed that Sherlock be taken to his room, but then in a small tired voice his younger brother had told him that it simply was his style and that he would prefer someplace simpler. Sherlock's injury was cleaned hazily cleaned out at that present moment before being bandaged. Watson, the woman by the name of Sizma, and the other man whose name he did not catch had bathed and were to sit by the fire or rest in a guest room. Watson had been more hesitant on the idea, yet Mycroft had urged him the Sherly would be fine for now, and that it would be insecure to place a patient's life in a doctor's hands; whom was tired and vulnerable for making mistake at the given minute.

He was slurred from his thoughts when he heard an unmistakable groan and the retreat of a needle from skin. That had taken quite a bit of time, yet felt like it had gone for twice as long...

"All done!" Watson smiled gleefully as Sherlock opened his eyes,

"Thank you old boy" Sherlock returned the smile yet not as eccentric as Watson's was. He nodded in thanks towards his older brother whom nodded in return as announced that he was going to leave so that Sherlock could get some rest whilst Watson packed up his surgical equipment.

"Are you alright Holmes?" the question certainly took him by surprise. His eyes fought to keep open yet Watson seemed as if he took no notice, too engrossed in packing up the medical equipment and essentials.

"In what terms?" he joked with a smirk, ignoring the sigh given to him by the doctor, as if speaking to him in volumes and saying 'You-know-what-I-mean" "Well physically I'm fine, thanks for asking." He turned his head, not willing to answer any more questions but heard,

"What about mentally?"

"What _about _mentally?" he of course knew what Watson had begun to speak of, but did not feel like sharing.

"Holmes..." he paused, finally finished the equipment. He dragged a wooden chair from the corner of the room which Holme's had surprisingly failed to notice before, and placed it by his bed by the side, "You can talk to me Sherlock..." that had taken him by an even bigger surprise.

"What about?"

"Oh I don't know, you getting torture to near death perhaps! Or maybe the taunting sick twisted game you're playing with some genius psychopath!" John attacked, sarcasm leaking through his tone. Sherlock just lay back and said nothing. He knew Watson was trying to help him, but those we events he did not want to speak of just now... "Or maybe even the death of one _Irene Adler._"

Holme's eyes snapped open and he stared at Watson with a sharp glare, as if daring him to continue, "That has absolutely nothing to do with you Watson!" he snapped, not meaning to say it as loudly as he did.

"Holmes... I know what she meant to you, and I'm sorry. But you can't just go leaving me out of the loop all the time!" Watson was being sincere, and Sherlock knew that. He knew that Watson only meant good, but at this very moment it was difficult to explain to him the effects of their journey. He silently cringed at the thought but it did not go unnoticed but his friend. "Sherlock, I know how much this has affected you, but..."

"I don't see why you need to ask then Watson. You are perhaps my one true friend, yes that much I know, and perhaps you are more to a brother to me than any of us care to acknowledge, but you must understand that some things are better left unspoken of" he ended, staring deeply into his companion's eyes.

"Holmes. There is a reason I am with you here on some mad goose chase instead of with my new wife at a vacation in Brighton. There is _also _a reason as to why I am helping, now Holmes, can you guess what that reason is?" he asked him,

"Well honestly old boy, I haven't got a clue as to why. Maybe we can discuss this matter further later... on a brighter occasion, perhaps?"

"No Holmes. _That _is not the answer. The answer is because yes you are conceivably one of my closest friends, maybe even the closest of them all. And you need to understand that I am not here to save anyone, I am not here to become a hero, but rather because you need my help! Whether you will deny that fact or not is completely up to you, but we both know that it is the truth- well for this case anyway. And whilst I am being of assistance to you I only ask for one thing in return- I do not ask to be back on my Honeymoon with my beautiful wife, I do not ask to become an incredibly rich man by the end, nor do I ask to become the most fortunate. All that I ask of _you _Holmes is to treat me as you friend, because friends _trust _each other, and _friends _tell one another about how they feel...I only wish for you to speak with me when you need to, Sherlock." Watson took a deep breath followed by a sigh. He shifted slightly in the dark wooden chair however made no further move as he waited expectantly for Holmes to reply.

"That is, Watson, doubtlessly true. But you have missed on one very important factor."

"And what factor might that be Holmes?"

"It is that yes, perhaps it is was true friends do, however with that being said, whilst _YOU _are asking me to share my _deepest _and most _sincere _thoughts and outlooks on this journey, _I _have the right to choose when I do so" he smiled lightly and let out a soft and calm yawn.

"You are unbelievable"

"Why, I shall take that as a compliment. Now, without further or ado, please, leave me to my much needed rest" and with that he closed his eyes and turned his head. All he saw was darkness and he heard defeated retreating footsteps followed by the opening and closing of a door rather abruptly.

Holme's kept his eyes closed as he thought about his friend's words,

_All that I ask of you Holmes is to treat me as you friend, because friends trust each other, and friends tell one another about how they feel...I only wish for you to speak with me when you need to, Sherlock..._

_Bloody doctor, why must he ask of me to reveal all my emotions? Can he not just leave me be... well of course not, its Watson... however I do feel slightly guilty for not enlighten him with my rather morbid thoughts, but I am glad at the same time that I did not. I must not let my feelings get in the way, for they play an extremely hindering and insignificant role in this game._

_I do hope that Watson doesn't take it too drastically; after all he should know me at least that well by now._

**WATSON**

_Oh curse that arrogant self-centred scoundrel. Try to help him and he gives you more than enough reasons not to! _

Watson cursed as he walked out of the guest room Holmes had been staying in. He walked down the large golden encrusted staircase with the surgical equipment wrapped around in their pack. As he stepped down the last of the staircase he bumped into none other than the older Holme's sibling himself.

"Ahh, doctor Watson, I do hope Sherly did not give you any further trouble upon my departure?" he asked with a light smile, whilst motioning for Stanley, whom stood next to him, to take the medical utensils from Watson's hands.

"Oh, of course not... we just had a talk." Watson answered the best he could without revealing too much.

"Oh, well care for a cup of tea? Your other companions are resting in the free rooms on the upper level." He smiled again, motioning for Watson to move over with him to the side. They walked through a rather large corridor with ancient crimson and silver framed paintings which Watson could only stare at in magnificence. Once they reached the end, there lay what would be called similar to a lounge room. In the middle was a black leather couch, whilst on each of its side matching arm chairs and an ottoman sat in the middle of them. In front of the furniture was a cosy warm fireplace emitting warm and relaxing heat.

They took their seats whilst Stanley served them tea.

"You know doctor... my brother _can _be rather difficult at times" Mycroft began, "And I do sincerely appreciate how long you've stuck with him on his... journeys. I myself have not seen him for quite awhile and it relaxes me so to know that he has someone like you there for him" he ended, taking a sip of his tea.

John sighed and stared at the fireplace, "Only if he would accept a little bit of help..." he trailed off.

Mycroft just chuckled lightly which surprised Watson, catching him of guard he moved his sight to him, "As I said, he _can _be rather hard to... well deal with in general" he let out another half hearted laugh, "You it was just like when we were children." Watson listened intently, "There was this one time at college where we were given... how you say- puzzles. They gave certain clues to certain classes, and gave everyone the maximum of exactly twenty-four hours to retrieve the answer, it was to test our minds and how we thought... I cannot particularly remember what Sherly's puzzle was, but all I knew he had solved his in less than a half hour, whilst barely even paying attention to it!" Watson's eyes were a little wide yet he was barely surprised. "So they gave him something of the senior level, my level of course as I was and still am five years his senior, but anyway...

The professors kept him in a room, gave him five suspects, and told him that he could ask two questions to each. They gave him an _hour _to solve who had killed Professor Shire's cat. I watched him from a distance when he did this, and all he did was turn around point a finger at Mr. Shire himself, and if I remember correctly, said;

"No one killed you cat. There was an accident, however you're cat survived"

"I laughed as I watched the professor's eyes widen. It looked like the poor man was going into shock! When they asked him how he knew he told them that three of the two only stared at the floor and played with the hem of their shirts or their ties, whilst two of those three glanced at each other awkwardly as the third of them kept shoot Mr. Shire stares, meaning that their parts were practiced. The other two had stared blankly at Sherlock, but he notice that the boy was clenching his teeth as the girl was tapping on her chair, impatiently. He hadn't gone into more detail but simply said that they were bad actors, but then revealed that there was paint on the girl's left ear, and that certain paint, he was sure, had come from the art classroom, and since it was a Friday, students were only allowed in their breaks, and in their break was when the cat supposedly 'died.' This left only the boy, but when the teacher told him if the boy was the killer he had denied it. He said that judging by the professor's crumbled pants that something had happened. He noted that there was a claw mark on his right ear, and loose cat hairs of his shoes that he had forgot to shake off,

"It was you. It was most likely that you were attempting to feed it, as it did not want to, it attacked you. You tripped over that chair over there" he had pointed at a misplaced chair on the corner by a window, where your cat jumped on the table and scratched itself by the window sill where there as some hairs, then wildly ran, and right now you are still unsure of its presence, otherwise you wouldn't be fidgeting or biting your lip so much, and you wouldn't have a can of specialised cat food in your pocket"

"How he knew about the cat food was beyond me..." Mycroft sighed,

"But what does this have to do with him being difficult?" Watson asked, unsure of where this was heading.

"We returned home that day, and our parents were aware of Sherly's achievement. He wouldn't take 'Congratulations' for an answer, or even 'well done'; he said that it was not an achievement but an observation. He even ignored his friends when they had told him it was amazing. All I can tell you is that my brother had never learnt to deal with his emotions in any way. He had no idea how to react to praise, how do you expect him to react to one asking him to reveal his emotions? I know it's a little complicated, but in time he will tell you, believe me"

"I certainly hope so..."

**I hope you enjoyed that.**

**Please review it only takes like a second and it's why I write! Thank you!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Attention guys! ( I WILL NOT BE POSTING TOMORROW AND POSSIBLE THE DAY AFTER, SEE BOTTOM OF CHAPTER) Sorry I've just realised I made a terrible mistake- Simza is her name. I had called her SIZMA in my previous chapters without noticing my mistake, I do apologize. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it took me a fair while to write... oh and I just noticed how many people Favourited and Alerted this story! Wow! Thanks to all those still reading, I hope that you enjoy!**

**PS. MISSING SCENE IN THIS CHAPTER. **

Rescue IIIII

The aura around the room was a tightly focused and highly determined one. The only sounds throughout the large area were of the voices of companions whom discussed their next move rather sharply and carefully whilst the flames in the oversized fireplace at the back of it all danced and fluttered as if to a tune.

All Watson could do was sigh as Mycroft had begun explaining to Simza the complications of the situation, but all he received in return were witting sarcastic remarks. He closed his eyes for a moment and his thoughts drifted to what they were about to do, which of course would be highly dangerous itself.

"I simply don't understand why don't just _cancel _the summit" Watson asked the three at the table, two his companions and the other being Mycroft as Sherlock was still supposedly 'resting'.

Everyone stopped short for a moment and mused over the answer as Mycroft spoke, his voice tired and slightly strained from having had to explain the subject over and over just too many times for his liking.

"Well the fact is that it's going to happen whether we like it or not" the elder of the Holmes answered him, "and everyone has already arrived, and although these gentlemen maybe talking 'peace', believe me their readying their armies at home" he finished with a small sigh. "To cancel the summit now would be temperamental war"

"The telegram, wasn't it clear?" Watson replied to his statement,

"We _have _doubled the security..."

"Oh, double the security that's comforting" Simza spoke with complete sarcasm from her large seat at the rather hefty light toned oak table.

"You don't understand the delicacy of the situation, I passed the telegram onto my superiors, though they're the ones who brought Moriarty's advice of the peace process in the first place" he paused, "He has positioned himself brilliantly! He's one of our foremost intellectuals, he's the personal friend of the..." however he trailed of as Watson completed his sentence for him,

"Prime minister, yes we all know that" he said in a rather annoyed voice.

"_I _believe you, but where's your _evidence?_" Mycroft challenged, knowing very well what the answer ought to be.

"He's too_ good _to leave evidence" the doctor answered, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "He doesn't leave loose ends..."

There was a sudden small noise coming from the great corridor which had lead to the 'discussion table' and a tip-tapping of lightly yet strong footsteps.

"Oh he's alive" Simza said with a smirk as she watched the younger of the two siblings emerge from the brilliant hallway.

_Shouldn't he be resting? He has always been the troublesome one... he isn't supposed to be out of bed until about another hour or so, but I guess with Sherly there's no point in giving him rules, even if they are for his own good. I shouldn't worry about him at all, and since when has he EVER listened to me? _Mycroft thought as he watched Sherlock's movements. Something rather miniature caught his eye in the other Holme's hand as he silently groaned, _when has he ever... _

"Sherly put that down" his brother instructed as he saw a small strange mechanism in his brother's hand, who for a man whom had died less than a few hours ago, looked quite well.

Watson looked between the two brothers in a little amusement, _no matter how grown he may seem he just isn't that grown up at all... _he chuckled quietly in his head, earning a strange stare from Simza which he had pointedly ignored.

"What is this contraption, may I have it?" he asked in a rush, staring at his brother expectantly. "The effect is most _invigorating_" he placed the odd machine on his lips and drew a breath,

"Eh, it's my private and _personal _supply of oxygen and you're not to touch it" he scolded him with a light shake of his head at the younger's actions, saying the last few words whilst emphasising greatly.

"This argument is getting us nowhere" 'Sherly' retorted, dragging the attention of those in the room to the quite significant subject at hand.

"I have arranged for documents to be prepared which allow you into the ball" Mycroft countered, gesturing the spoken declaration of a soft flick of his wrist.

"Stanley!" Holmes turned and looked beside him at the servant and smiled at the old man; "You haven't aged a day" he offered him a smirk, and got a slightly perplexed look from the butler. "Is that my favourite chutney..." he drifted off, "fact is, you don't _really _know what he's planning..." he spoke loudly again and turned around to face the group.

"It won't be another bomb" Simza alleged, her tone knowing and certain.

"No it won't be another bomb" the doctor agreed, yet still unsure of where their collected thoughts were actually heading towards.

"It doesn't make sense... "Her sentence wafted off, as she became in sudden deep thought, calmingly taking a short but paused intake of breath.

"Why would he attack all the nations- only to unite them?"

They could only watch as Holmes lips turned into a firm line, sighing... _I suppose it should be a fair time to reason with them and tell them of my discoveries... however I am surprised not one of them has caught on just yet... All in good time then._

"It should be an assassination... by a lone gunman at close range" they all paused for a moment, until realisation of the inevitable truth hit them hard, especially Simza whom had already just figured out whom the assassin might be...

"Renee"

They all looked at up the more youthful Holme's, mouths slightly ajar, as if freezing in time all together the pieced together the meaning.

_How long had he known? Why hadn't he told us! Why hadn't he told me! Renee is my brother! How could he... _Simza stopped, subconsciously clenching her teeth and fisting her fingers.

"Unfortunately yes." He clasped his lips in tight straight line and met the female companion's eyes for a long yet seemingly swift few moments. _Well that certainly went better than I had first expected. It doesn't make the situation much better though..._

"You knew..." her eyebrows were raised and her eyes, if even remotely possible, wider than before. He stopped all she was doing, her expression a little grim. _He knew... how do I work with someone I cannot trust? Then again, it is Holmes; I shouldn't have expected any less. _

"I had my suspicions, having seen who'd be attending I'm now certain" he spoke evidently, allowing a short but sharp intake of breath through his lips.

"Well at least we know who to look out for" Mycroft mentioned his tone a little on the light side. _At least, well hopefully, that gets us SOMEWHERE. I feel as if we were stuck, now at least we are moving along, even if it as at a slow pace._

Holmes continued to stare into the deep brown eyes of Simza, as she his. One pair read great disbelief whilst the other pair were a little emotionless, other than the fact that the beared a somewhat of an apologetic look.

"Renee will be the evidence..." Watson understood, his eyes gleaming somewhat. _Holmes had planned this all along, hadn't he? I swear that man is impossible._

"If we can find him- and stop him, we will perhaps not only save his life- but prevent the collapse of western civilisation" Sherlock contemplated, sighing a just a little more, his gaze wavered and fell to the side, and the next words he spoke to himself more than anyone else,

"No pressure."

"Doctor!" Mycroft yelled over to Watson whom had just finished his tea, only about an hour after the discussion and realisation of what they must do. Watson turned around, placing his empty cup of tea on the smaller sized wooden table. "I've had Stanley arrange for some attire for you at the ball, as I trust you brought non on your little journey here" he chuckled a bit. "The clothes should be waiting for you at the third room upstairs to you left. Oh! And please give Sherly his garments as well; he should be in the room to the left of the one with the clothes"

John just nodded in thanks and began treading up the stairs as he heard Mycroft telling Simza where here dress was, being not too far from theirs. He heard her asking about her friend, the one whose name he'd never learnt to properly pronounce, as she was welcome with the reply that he had asked to simply go home since his part was finished.

He accidently skipped a step and almost ended up tripping but had fortunately managed to keep his footing. _Room three on my left... _he remembered and walked over to his opposing side before finding the correct door. He clutched with golden doorknob without much force, and twisted before pushing it carefully.

Inside it was simple and very much like all the other guest rooms, except as Watson walked in, beside him he noticed a large mirror, with an even larger closet, its colour seemingly black. The sheets were plain crimson, unlike the room Holme's had been staying in, and the window at the top at the back of the bed as a little smaller. He took a moment to take it all in before noticing that the attire that Mycroft had promised them lay on the bed.

He and Holmes had almost the same clothes, minus the size part. There was a pair of each: pure white bow ties with the same colour dress shirts to match, dark midnight inky suit jackets with tailcoats and finally socks and, what seemed like to Watson, the shiniest pairs of murky shoes he'd ever seen. He was sure after one glance at the clothes that they had been tailor designed, and after feeling the fabric, he was certain.

He moved a set of clothes until something caught his eye, gloves. Soft, perfect fighting ashen hued gloves. Watson could only smile to himself a little,

_This party is going to be rather fancy isn't it?_

Picking up a pair of gloves for Holmes too, he moved and left the room to give it to him, leaving his own clothes on the bed. Walking slowly with the attire in one hand and the shoes in the other, he came to a halt at the door beside his on the left before turning around and knocking at it with his elbow and calling,

"Holmes!"

There was a muffled sound on the other side before the door was abruptly pulled open, revealing a tired looking and bored Holmes. He looked at Watson's arms where the clothes lay before offering a smirk and slowly taking a breath.

"Fancy, fancy, fancy..." Sherlock mumbled, gently taking the clothes of Watson's hands, before looking at him for a moment then saying, "We're leaving soon, I take it?"

"Yes, right after we all change and prepare ourselves. I'll be in the room beside yours, but I'll meet you down the stairs, there's going to be a carriage waiting outside in a bit" he replied softly before turning around and walking into his own room.

Hearing the other's door close and lock, he did the same for his own, before beginning to dress.

It hadn't taken very long, and soon Watson was carefully and very gently pulling his suit jacket on but leaving it unbuttoned then quickly turning to his tailcoat. His currently bare feet somehow managed to trip on each other as he was turning, sending his crashing backwards, but luckily because of the bed his coat was laying on he manage to keep his balance. Not without making a small racket though...

"Watson, you alright there old boy?" he heard the obvious voice of this best friend and companion in the room beside his, _how exactly had he heard that?_

"The wall seems to contain some sort of gypsum plasterboard and some actual plaster, the combination is usually used for extra rooms- it's a rather thin combined material, as to answer your unspoke question"

_Now he can read minds too. Holmes, you never cease to amaze me._

"Oh, you thank you Watson" Watson turned to the wall where his friends voice seemed to be erupting from, "By simply noting the length and positioning of your pause, _and _your train of thought, it isn't extremely hard to tell that you were thinking that I never cease to amaze you- however you are now reconsidering and believing that you had spoken a tad too soon, correct?"

_Great. He actually CAN read minds..._

"No Watson, I apologise but I cannot read minds, I simply observe, this time more or so with my ears and knowledge of you rather than my other senses"

"Holmes, will you _stop _that? Honestly..." he groaned and shook his head then suddenly realised he had yet to where his coat. Noticing that Holmes had once again distracted him with what could be none to him as simple child's play. He picked up the rather fancy extra but necessary layer or clothing and ran his arms through the sleeves, and pulling it down perfectly on his shoulders.

_Perfect fit._

He was then unexpectedly interrupted by Sherlock's rough voice,

"Watson"

That simple word, even though short and not unusual, caught his attention at full stance. He sat on the bed, his back to the wall as he waited for his friend to continue, as the tone his last name was spoken in rang out in many volumes, and he could certainly swear that there was something else in it...

_Sincerity?_

_Impossible... it's Holmes._

He knew that the man had feelings but many often forgot the important factor because he was so good and so well practiced at hiding all his emotions, whilst on the contrary, Watson knew it would be easier if he would just allow people in... Remembering his last 'significant' conversation with Holmes he shook his head, and was pulled back to reality by the same voice.

"These shoes have quite a bit of lace, don't they?"

John looked down at the shoes and socks lying on the floor. Holmes was right actually, the shoelace- which was quite odd for a shoe of that manner- ran from near its tip and escalated to its very top. It wasn't an ankle high sort of shoe- but it was still rather high- and the laces would have to take a while since they were all undone except at the first folding intersection.

"Oh yes, your quite right Holmes" he replied, but he knew that was not what Holmes _really _wanted to discuss with him.

"Emotions are rather strange things now, aren't they?"

The statement stopped him short. His eyes drifted to the wall behind him and imagined his friend, sitting down and facing the wall, a look of focus and concentration on his face. Watson tried not to let it affect him too much and lightly knelt down and picked up the right shoe after putting on both his socks, then fitted his foot in it, answering,

"I suppose so" he offered nothing else, but he knew it was all he needed to say as he continued lacing his shoe, almost getting to the point where it was needed to be tied.

"They hinder you... they are practically useless and overexert the human mind with pointless trains of thoughts... yet, because of their sole existence they hold the key to reviving your will..." he trailed off, and to say Watson was _just _lost would have definitely been an extreme understatement.

"Watson." He stopped abruptly, as if debating whether it best to continue or not. "I do apologise for the harsh words I'd spoken not too long ago"

John's eyes were wide. They both stopped for several seconds before each continued.

"I don't need to tell you that you are perhaps my one true friend Watson. Nor do I need to thank for our friendship or the fact you have journeyed out with me this far- because you already know. As for your questions I feel obliged to answer them- well at least _some _of them." He paused taking a breath.

"Miss Adler's...death... hurt, yes, but I do realise that you know that already for a fact. It pained me because she was the only women I had ever truly cared for, and I did not tell you because I simply thought it was not necessary. I did not want my emotions to cloud my judgement- or yours for that matter- and perform something rash and perilous"

_It's not that he didn't trust me... it's that he knew if he let it out it might be more dangerous than any of us thought..._

"The torture- you unfortunately heard- was rather painful. I honestly felt no reason to... how you say- 'dawdle' on the fact because what had been done had been done _already. _I knew it might just hinder our process, but it's fortunate that we now know of the lengths that Moriarty will go to- to retrieve what he wants.

Watson was already up to his next shoe and lacing it about tightly, whilst still intently listening to Holme's confession with great surprise.

"I do not wish to 'play' this twist game with Moriarty longer than necessary, but I will do _anything _to make sure that he does not come out smiling and glad by the end of it"

Watson knew how much that had taken out of his friend. He knew how hard it was for his friend to say that... entire he knew how challenging it was but certainly wasn't _expecting _it. It was strange and odd in so many ways yet he was more than grateful for it. Though he could not see Holmes, only hear him, he could tell; just how strongly his words had affected him.

"John?"

Watson snapped out of his days as he finished the last of his lace moved on to his neck bow. _He just called me John. Holmes never calls me John..._

"I_ do_ apologise"

Right at this very moment Watson was clueless. Absolutely and undeniably utterly clueless. Sherlock Holmes, the very man who many have claimed no nothing of emotions, had just told him all about it, his senses and why he didn't share it with him in the beginning. And _now, _he was _apologising. _And Detective Sherlock Holmes, probably the most brilliant man in all of England, maybe even the _world _certainly does _not _apologize.

He heard the unlocking of a door than the shift as it drifted open. Quickly he fixed his bow, pulled on his gloves and rushed to the door of his _own _room. In front of it he saw Holmes waiting, with the most unreadable expressions ever...

"We shouldn't keep my dear brother waiting, now should we Watson?"

_And the mask was back on and tightly fixated again..._

"Holmes..."

"Yes Watson?"

He opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by Mycroft as he'd realised they had already made it down the stairs,

"The carriage is waiting outside"

"Holmes- why did you..." he was broken off again as Sherlock had begun to talk with Mycroft about the business matters of the ball, and Watson knew very well that he was ignoring him. He was about to speak again but caught site of Simza. She wore a cherry red silk gown, long and decorated with bows and flowers. Her hair was done in a neat up do, whilst a tiara like diadem lay on her head- with matching long earrings and a necklace. She wore dark midnight toned gloves and he shoes were hidden beneath her long spectacular dress. He walked up to him and smiled, immediately beginning to converse about what the plan _was _exactly.

They talked, but he could not rid a single question out of his mind;

_Why had Sherlock apologised?_

**Mwahahaa I am so evil. I hope you enjoyed that! In case you didn't get it the first time, I'm not going to be posting to tomorrow or even possible the day after because of a sleepover taking place. I am sorry, but please stick with me- there's only a few chapters to go! **


	6. Chapter 6

**HI! I WILL TRY TO FINISH AS MANY CHAPTERS BEFORE I HAVE TO GO! I'm going to my cousin's place for about a week this coming Saturday, and I will be staying for about four-to-five days. I will try to post the next chapter tomorrow!**

**This is just short and needed to be added before we GET DOWN TO BUSINESS!**

**:D Thank you for all the alerts and reviews! Working on the next chapter *it will be the hardest to write* and hopefully I can get it up by tomorrow morning or maybe even tonight? It's 11:35pm so I'll do my best!**

Rescue IIIIII

The night sky was perhaps the darkest it had been in what simply seemed like a lifetime, as the moon shone brightly, illuminating the still busy city below which writhed in the cold snowing and simply freezing season.

However, they were inside at the moment; the only real natural light was presenting itself through a few rather oversized windows, whilst thankfully, the cold was blocked out completely. The floor was black and white, clean and spotless, laying itself in a chequered sort of pattern, for lack of better words. The hall was quite large, as the soft and calming dance music played lightly in their ears, pumping softly from several gramophones around the party.

Sherlock, Simza, Watson and the older Holmes stood in a group, acting as if they were chatting quietly among themselves whilst they were really glancing around for any signs of the assassin or the madman professor himself. Sherlock only paid half his attention to the seemingly pointless and utterly fake conversation taking place, his eyes scanning around the room unsuspiciously whilst his shoulders were tense and his lips in a firm tight line. Mycroft on the other hand, seemed completely opposite to his younger sibling. His muscles were slumped lightly and his eyes not focused anywhere in particular. Simza and Watson had the same sort of feeling and stance, vigilant yet quite relaxed.

A short amount of time passed before Mycroft decided it that it was time to start the _real _discussion they had all been waiting for.

"Now we're all present I can tell you that the targets are the German chancellor and his ambassador, the French Prime Minister and his man, and the other nations are really working out which side to take should hostilities erupt then so..." Sherlock's thoughts drifted as he watched the nobles dances, chat and drink around the room, with all their heads held high and completely unaware of the disaster that were to take place should they fail. "...the Romanian Prime Minister and his ambassador and of course our Prime Minister and the British Ambassador.

The younger Holmes thought for a moment before speaking,

"We have to choose a moment when all the dignitaries are standing still... Is there to be an official photograph?" he asked in high hopes.

Much to his fortune and delight his brother answered,

"Indeed, yes, in erm..." he took a look at his authentic pocket watch before calculating the time and replying "thirty-eight minutes"

"In which case we might as well dance" a light smirk lightened Sherlock's lips and reached his eyes.

He stuck out his left hand to Simza who didn't take but only looked at his gloved fingers. She hesitated before saying,

"I've never done this before" with a reluctant tone. Sherlock tilted his head and gave her an assuring look,

"Just" he took her hand gently and began walking, "follow" he paused and glance around, "my" he placed his free hand on her waist and she his neck, "lead". The stood for a moment then began swaying in time with the rhythm of the music. Simza stared behind Holmes as he held her close and he did the same, twirling every once in a while to find anything strange or suspicious.

His eyes became fixated and Simza only stared, her feet completely in sync with his as much as they were with the soft classic music. After a few more sways and turns he tilted his head and his eyes drifted faster than Simza had ever seen.

"What do you see?"

"Everything." She attempted to follow his gaze but his eyes were too fast for hers. She looked up at him once more and waited until he spoke, "_that _is my curse."

"But you don't see what you're looking for..."

They danced awhile longer, Holmes eyes trailing every detail even the tiniest and most unnoticeable, his mouth slightly ajar but his lips close together. He did not twitch, flinch or even look up as Simza accidently treaded on his shoe whilst her eyes had been completely entranced with his.

They turned and swayed until Holme's sharp eyes caught something; or more someone. They broke off and headed towards Watson and Mycroft whom simply waited and watched.

Holme's stuck his right hand out to John, whom sighed and said,

"Thought you'd never ask"

Watson took his hand after a small and almost inaudible sigh. Holme's offered him a look slightly amused look but he gingerly ignored it and challenged with a knowing look of his own. Placing each hand in the other's hand, they began to sway and twirl with the music, their feet in complete and full rhythm with each other, not even once slightly brushing against their tip or missing a beat.

After a short minute or so, Sherlock's eyes met Watson's own pair and signalled silently that they were where they were supposed to be,

"Over my shoulder" Watson raised his chin slightly and observed, "Young man, German uniform, ceremonial sword" he paused his tone for a moment as he waited for the doctor to collect his thoughts and ideas.

"Got him" John confirmed.

"Professional opinion?"

Watson glanced around once more before mending his gathered judgements into words, "Trauma. Major injury..." he trailed off for a moment, "with excellent repair work" he added, "Doctor Hoffman's style"

They turned and twirled a little more,

"You _did _say he was at the forefront of medical innovation, we've already seen an example of his skill" he remembered the past events to do with surgical doctor and his 'unfortunate' and utterly 'accidental' decease.

"Those twins weren't twins" Watson realised, staring at Holme's expression. For a moment he expected surprise then figured, _of course he's already figured it out... _shaking his head he cleared his mind for a second flat. _But just WHEN had he done so?_

"My suspicions were aroused when one failed to go to the end of the other... I also noticed the discreet but unmistakable puckering behind the ear where the skin had been torn back. I should have realised then that they were a surgical experiment." He finished and gazed at his shoes for a mere moment before concentrating on the scene around them.

"To see if it is possible to make one man look like another..."

"His face is no longer his own" Sherlock confirmed, their pace not slowing. "What better way to guarantee the world war than to make the assassin..."

"One of the ambassadors..." Watson's eyes widened slightly even though he knew something like this was bound to happen.

The broke of as the tune stopped playing and began talking odd yet extremely even steps to the side, where Simza and Mycroft waited most patiently. Chatter had begun to erupt, but neither of the pair paid any attention to it at all... they both gazed around once more,

"That narrows it down to one of six..." Holmes stated, he and Watson were walking around the dance floor in the middle and staring at each of the six suspects. "You and Sim shall find her brother... of this I have no doubt..."

"Holmes..."

"You know my methods" he said sharply as they both stopped and turned towards each other.

"And I know where you'll be"

They stared into each other's eyes; the words unspoken just seemed so loud and clear. Holmes cleared his throat for a moment, _be most alert and cautious Watson old boy, you will do fine. I sincerely apologise but I must do this... _Whilst Watson's only trend of thought was; _don't do this Holmes. _No matter how clear and evident the sight was, none took notice of their other friend's warning and apologise.

It lasted for another minute or so before a single new tune of music started playing through the gramophones around the ballroom, and without a second thought or so, Holme's spoke to reassure the doctor,

"No possible solution could be more congenial to me than this" the stopped for a short but rather meaningful moment, until, "By the way, who taught you how to dance?" Holmes asked as light smile gracing his lips in traditional and _real _light hearted humour.

"You did" Watson returned the smile in a way just as strong will as his closest friend.

"Well, I've done a fine job"

They both shared glad, amused and for once an honest friendly smirk that was not either forced or used a last thread of hope of simply keeping them safe or sane, sometimes even both. Watson turned his head from Holmes, his smiled still there-

"Be careful" Holmes just nodded and looked back once before he left through the doors leading to the balcony which the guard calmly stood by, keeping watch on all the guests. Watson turned to see Sherlock whispering something into his ear and handing him a paper before leaving through the narrow entrances. Both their thoughts drifted to something so different yet so truly alike-

_**You'd better come back in the end of this Holmes, I won't accept any exceptions- and DON'T apologise.**_

_**I am most likely not coming back in the very finality of this ordeal Watson old boy, please do make an exception, I do apologise.**_

**R&R**

**Thanks very much: D**

**Tell me what you think!**


	7. Chapter 7

**HARDEST CHAPTER EVER! BUT IT'S HERE! I WILL POST THE NEXT ONE IN A FEW HOURS BECAUSE THIS WAS TOO LONG TO POST AS ONE PART. SO I CUT IT, AND I'M CURRENTLY WRITING THE SECOND WHICH DEFINITLY WON'T BE AS LONG!**

**ENJOY! WATSON'S POV IN CASE YOU'RE WANDERING IS IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!**

Rescue IIIIIII

Watson strolled back over to Mycroft and Simza with the stern look on his face. _I still don't know why he had apologised. I just don't understand that man sometime... maybe more so than often._

He stopped once he reached them and only nodded at first; both of them seemed to get his unsaid message at once, as unreadable looks washed onto the pair's faces and features. He whispered what he and Holme's had discovered and revealed to Simza in her ear as Mycroft stopped paying attention and turned, and for once Watson knew- even if only for a second- that a grave expression swept over him.

He continued to tell Simza what shocking information had been found, and watched at the corner of her eye at how she lowered the large and rather fancy wine glass she had been drinking and clutched it in a death grip in her right dark gloved hand.

Her mouth fell a little further ajar as the doctor told her what Holme's planned to do and what they themselves had to do in order for the plan to go accordingly.

Watson glanced around and saw none other than professor James Moriarty receive a note- undeniably the once Sherlock had given the guard and so kindly asked him to pass onto the older bearded man. He watched as Moriarty unfolded the note which had unquestionably carried Sherlock's neat yet messy script, ordering the empty meet place.

He looked away and sighed.

_Holmes would be fine._

_Holmes HAD to_ _be fine._

He cleansed his thoughts and figured it would be rather helpful if they were to return to the extremely significant job at hand.

"Shall we go to work?" he asked Simza, who simply nodded and pulled herself together so to look and certainly _feel _a little less dazed and surprised.

Suddenly, there was a loud voice over the microphone ordering everyone, or as spoken 'ladies and gentlemen', to gather around for the photo.

_It must be thirty-eight minutes later then... well then; I suppose this is our cue._

The snow outside fell like soft, melting rain. It descended at a fair and entirely comfortable rate, plummeting in a seemingly never ending fashion. Sherlock stood with his pure bright gloved hands folded together behind his back and resting on his fancy tailcoat. His eyes watched the calm plunging of the snowflakes, each heading in his direction yet not quiet reaching him in the confines of the balcony. He placed a hand on the edge of the short wall in front of him, keeping him secured and insuring that if he slipped, its presence would not allow him to fall into the raging waters below.

_What must be done MUST be done, and I am the only one to do it... I suppose there is no point in trying to avoid the inevitable, even though the inevitable might just seem so undeniably and horrifyingly crude. I certainly do hope Simza and Watson stop Renée and help save all of Western Civilisation. As for my brother... I do hope he doesn't mind that I have burrowed his ... strange contraption. _Sherlock thought, his hand moving in an absent minded manner to his 'secret' inner dress pocket where he kept the strange mechanism. _And I... surely, positively and indefinitely hope that John finds happiness within his marriage and Mary... oh look at me, I am thinking to myself as if it is my final night..._

_Then again, perhaps it is._

He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again and placing his mask on tightly and fixatedly. _He's here._

"I'm sorry" Moriarty said in fake sincere voice, "is this a bad time?" he however didn't stop. Holmes could tell he was getting closer by the increasingly louder echo of his footsteps but ignored the feeling of nervousness in the deep pit of his stomach and answered,

"Never better" he stopped for a moment and turned to face the professor, "would you bring that clock?" he asked him in a casual tone as h e pointed to a nearby clock on a small table.

Moriarty walked forward slowly and placed the miniature clock on a fair sized yet slightly small table where a vintage style old fashion wooden chessboard lay, with both the white and the black pieces laid out perfectly.

"So we get to play this game after all"

They both moved to either side of the desk and met each other's gazes. Both were hard, strong and greatly willed. Each believed that they had to do what they had to do on their parts, either and both completely understanding that if they were to make a single wrong move, a single not so quite right turn, a single accidently twisting spin that the other would surely and so wholly without a doubt win. The pair both mutually understood that if one or the other were to treat the opponent any less than an equal that the underestimated man would of course win, leaving the unthoughtful challenger definitely regretful and most likely dead.

And that was undoubtedly an advantage that neither could afford to lose.

Holding their positions, both their stances were held high and strong. None of the two wavered or showed a flicker of uncertainty or insecurity in their sights or glances.

"Here we are..." Moriarty broke his stare with Holmes and moved to get something from another table nearby, but the other only had his suspicions as to what it was. Sherlock just simply sat down in a chair that was to his side and face the table, and patiently- and as calmly as he could- waited for the older professor to come back. In a sudden moment, he felt something fall on his shoulders. His muscles tensed slightly, only to relax a second after when he heard his opponent speak,

"There we are. Don't want you catching a cold now", he patted both his shoulders, after placing a fur coat onto them, making Sherlock inwardly flinch however expertly not showing it. Holmes only turned a little toward him, but otherwise ignored- or attempted to ignore- the gesture.

"A five minute game" Holmes suggested, offering a short lived smile of his own.

"If you think you can manage it" the older man flung his own rich midnight toned pure fur coat on his broad shoulders and for the next time that evening, met Sherlock's fiery eyes. Moriarty sat- his pupils still in contact with his younger opponent's.

Holmes just smiled at his retort and received a smile back, both being obviously terribly and entirely one thing, and that one thing was fake.

Their beams disappeared as they each eyed the twin clock designed for this certain type of chess game and readied themselves. The unmistakable tick-tocking sound of the clock currently echoing through their eardrums like it was the loudest object on earth, more of like it was the loudest object _in the universe. _Their full concentration was at play. Their utmost and obviously highest attention to the chess game board before the pair of them. And their minds ran miles as they stared at each other for confirmation to begin their not-to-little facade.

It was time. They began. The professor's move first followed by Sherlock's own. They did not start slow and they certainly got far...

_The game is afoot._

Watson hurried though the crowd, with Simza clearly in tow. They quickly stalked through the mass of chatting nobles, higher-ups and superiors, heading over to somewhere near the corner yet close the centre where they were sure it would be too loud to overhear them.

"We both have two bishops... I maybe outside of the room- but my methods are not" they continued to play, yet move as fast and invigorating as the last, yet somehow completely calm and certain.

There was a short pause before Moriarty spoke,

"You can't mean Doctor Watson... surely..." he played his moves. His intense and- and Sherlock was just so sure about it- to some extent uncertain glare matched the detective's own, except Holmes had rather replaced the uncertainty with conviction. "That doesn't seem fair..." he trailed off, the clock still ticking seemingly to some point a little faster one way or another...

"Right, the surgery would have left scars" Watson stated once they were in the exact correct location and position. Both he and Simza glared around at the ambassadors, trying their best to figure out just who may be the assassin, just who maybe Renée. "Only four of them have the hairline to hide them..." he concludes. Staring off intensely in the nobles' directions.

"The ambassador that you replaced with Renée, is he still alive?" Holmes wandered. It was an honest question which had truly plagued his mind for quite some time.

Their moves quickened a little more, but still remained completely and utterly fixated and controlled. Their sights not meeting once since they had the very few times in the utmost beginning of the chess game.

Moriarty did not answer, however replied to the question with a question of his own, "Would you like me to recommend you're next move?" his rough yet relaxed voice rang through Sherlock's ears who simply paused for a short split second.

But continued on none the less, clearing his throat quietly, not loud enough for the professor to hear, but loud enough for Holmes to regain his senses.

"They're all my brother's height..." Simza trailed off. Her eyes were still darting between the four dangerous suspects. He was not sure, uncertain, and doubtful but most of all just scared...

_What if I make a mistake? I'll be practically starting the war myself...but I cannot doubt myself now. I am passed that and it is definitely and unquestionably not an option anymore. I must find the assassin, I MUST find Renée._

She hesitated but took another look. "Right built...but- the eyes!" she whispered excitedly to Watson. He turned to her gladly waiting for more information. "The eyes are wrong... Renée has blue eyes" she scanned the four secondary leader's eyes once more along with the doctor beside her.

"He could be wearing glass lenses to change the colour..." Watson offered his thought. _Perfect. This should help... but we must be cautious. Take down the wrong man and we're technically ruining Western civilisation and starting the darned war ourselves... _"In which case his eyes will be hurting..." _someone who is blinking rapidly in obvious-or not so much- discomfort. _

"Renée is left handed" they both inspected the most likely ambassadors, both setting their eyes on one whom often turned his glass from right to left out of habit, and whom blink quiet often rather hurriedly as if there were something in his eyes...

"Perhaps the assassin would take measures to insure that he doesn't give himself away" Holmes spoke. His hand quickly reaching toward his chosen piece and moving his to its chosen location before pulling down the lever of the old and aging clock. "Like a gambler concealing a tell"

Time was running out and soon...

It would.

"I think... it might be him" Simza pointedly stared at a man in fancy attire. It was the exact same man which she and John had met eyes on and agreed he looked and acted somewhat peculiar just earlier before. He often switched his drink from hand to hand, as if not used to carrying one in only a single palm. He often blinked in a strange and odd manner, yet it would go unnoticed by many... _it might be him... it might be Renée but that's only a MIGHT. _

"You _think_?" The doctor hesitated and paused. _It could very well be him- but I just hope she's sure. Please just don't be wrong... _"You have to be sure"

"You're clock is ticking" Moriarty spoke crisply as he watched Holmes lay his hands by his sides and not make a single move. "May I remind you that this is Blitz Chess? A single miscalculation could cost you the game"

The clock ticked. Time slowed. One move would decide it all.

Time moved faster. The minutes were racing and the second vanishing. It was now or never.

She nodded; _it's him... its Renée- it has to be. _Her eyes continued to stare at the 'fake' ambassador. Her pupils never once wavering. Just like her words, she was sure. It had to be her brother. It had to be Renée. There was no one else, was there? She couldn't doubt in her better judgement now, because if she got this right, she would certainly help in saving a lot of lives. If she got it wrong, however, she would have to live- though she was sure not for long- knowing that she had failed. Knowing that she had not recognised her own dear brother to save only oh so many innocent lives...

Watson took a deep breath, "If I tackle the wrong man to the ground I could start a war" they both watched 'Renée's' movements, not daring to look away even if only for a single, individual split second.

"Maybe it's less obvious. A nervous tick. A flutter of anxiety." Holmes shifted in his chair, whether comfortably and ready or uncomfortably and not ready, neither knew. He bit down on his tongue with his tooth then released...

"I expect everyone has a reason to be nervous tonight..." Moriarty replied rather cheerfully yet not quite smiling, sending unnoticeable and inaudible shivers done Sherlock's very being.

If they were right they would save a lot of lives that did not deserve to become deceased. If they were wrong, they would take them away from the land of the living and cast chaos even sooner.

Watson inhaled. The moment of truth. He readied his stance and glanced at Simza, who still seemed just as unready and unsure as she had been a few single moments ago. He searched her eyes for a straight honest easy and most of all confident answer, but found not what he had been looking nor hoping for,

"I don't know...

"So perhaps it's the opposite" Sherlock spoke, his voice steady and unwavering. "Failure depraved naturally. An episode consumed with his performance that the one characteristic he cannot accommodate is spontaneous reaction" he finished smoothly, crisp clear confidence rolling of the tip of his tongue and biting of the edge of every single one of his words.

Watson quickly moved forward, _we have to be sure_, his hand 'accidently' hit the waiter's tray and brought glasses of the finest and richest champagne crumbled down to the floor and breaking with the force of the strong hit. It created the very well needed reaction-

Some of the four ambassadors had not moved an inch, though one was so shaken it brought his vintage crispy cigarette rattle to the floor and landing at his feet.

_It's him._

_It's Renée. _

Watson nodded to her as she glanced at him, searching for a go or not. Her thoughts were wiped as she begged for her feet to take her faster. And at this moment, she would have sworn to herself that if she didn't mind the attention that she would have taken his expensive, tall dark black heels of and ran.

She caught up with him and immediately, just as their eyes met, she knew she had found him, she knew she had found her brother.

"Brother! I implore you!" she said to him, her voice radiating with worry and fear, her eyes searching for the right answer.

"Sister, forgive me"

And with that, he pushed her of him roughly, his eyes artificially tone eyes simply begging for her forgiveness and asking her to understand. It all just seemed to happen in such a fast motion, one minute she was clutching to him, and the next she was thrown lightly, struggling to keep her balance and footing whilst staring wide eyed as Renée reached into his coat pocket, pulled out what couldn't be mistaken as none other than a hand pistol, and fired.

The shot missed and rang to the ceiling as the assassin was tackled to the floor by Doctor Watson, whom lay on top of the dangerous and armed man, keeping his wrist in place so that it could not move- and neither could the weapon within his hold.

There was loud commotion as Simza watched in both aw and horror as her brother attempted to fire again, thankfully missing quite miserably.

"Everybody will pay! Mark my words!" he yelled loudly, his eyes shining with anger and despair, his words blasting of his lips as venom or acid alike.

He was apprehended as Watson moved off him and whom he thought to be Mycroft knelt down beside him, stepped on his fingers as to remove the weapon, and finally shook the firearm free of the perilous person.

He continued to struggle as the guards took a strong hold of him and continued to move him away of the nobles. Even though there was little or no way could he in any method be dangerous at this point, their hands gripped his forearms most strongly and painfully. He continued to struggle, but Simza could no longer watch.

_It over..._

"That doesn't bode well, does it?" Holme's decisive, crisp voice cut through the air like a knife through butter. Their game was moving along, their movements ever relaxed and calm whilst their aura and thoughts were the complete opposite. The contrast of their impressions had created the most intimidating and tension filled atmosphere, however neither of the two seemed even a little affected by it.

"Things will better put some benefit..." they locked their stares, neither moving. "After all..."

"The game is still young" Holmes added. Moriarty was getting to him, but he would not- _could not _let that happen. He would not lose. Nor would he give up.

"Actually, it's in its adolescence"

"SOMEBODY WILL PAY!" He yelled.

Watson still held Simza tightly. His gloved hand both on her head and her back, careful not to hurt her. Her arms were around him just as much, holding him fixatedly and not wanting to let go for the moment. She only needed one thing right now and they both knew what that was.

_Comfort_

Easier spoken than not. The kind doctor could feel her tears staining the back of his dark rich tailcoat, but he did not care. Nor would he ever. Inside, Watson just wanted this to be over just as much as she... he wanted to be on his honeymoon with his beautiful and charming wife, relaxed, calm and peaceful. But then again, to get to your reward you'd have to present your result. It wouldn't be long before Simza would have her life back with her bonded family, nor would it be long for Holmes to be back at Baker street riddling through seemingly impossible cases and playing off violin tunes at three in the morning whilst poisoning Gladstone. Watson closed his eyes for a moment and blocked everything out,

_It wouldn't be long._

They both watched as Renée was 'escorted' rather roughly and unceremoniously through the court whilst struggle with immense rage.

Watson saw it in the corner of his eye... it was so sudden, yet it was there. Renée had just come crumbled down to the floor, as if knocked unconscious – or worst- by some invisible force... her raced forth through the gathering crowd before yelling,

"I'm a doctor! A doctor!" kneeling beside Renée his arm automatically shifted and his hand subconsciously raced toward the man's neck, checking at how his pulse felt. It was rapid, light and threaded between his fingers but it would without a doubt disappear very soon. Renée seemed to be choking, shaking and convulsing all over, as if having some sort of hazardous deadly seizure.

He examined the trembling figure only to find some sort of dart embedded within his flesh.

_Murder..._

His frown deepened as his eyes slightly widened even though he knew he shouldn't have expected anything less. He shouldn't and _couldn't _have expected anything less _at all._

There were more loud confused yells as Simza rushed her way through the crowd of sceptical higher-ups, her covered fingers grasping her long dashing dress as she continued forth, the loud echoing sound of her heels against the tiled ground inevitable.

"You found him!" she paused, her hand positioned over his chest as her eyes were large and just purely and utterly nothing but afraid for the said man's life. "What's wrong with him!"

"Poison" Watson said simply. No more needed to be spoken. They met gazes for a second which seemed to last all eternity before she set her eyes on her dying brother once more. Watson touched the tip of the dart and brought his finger to his tongue. _It's too late. We're too late._

"Do something!" he afraid and frightened words snapped through him like steel. _I cannot... _she began feverishly speaking in her own native tongue to her brother, "Do something Doctor!" she yelled again. He was there, the murderer. And Watson saw him. He recognised him from the forest as one of Moriarty's henchmen...

_He's been playing us this entire time..._

He gave her one last apologetic glare after checking her brother's pulse... nothing. He stood up and rushed off to Holme's direction.

_He's one step ahead of us. He been one step ahead of us all the damned time!_

"I think you've just lost your most valuable piece" Moriarty focused on the Blitz chess board, a light dark and twisted smile tugging at his lips.

"A winning strategy sometimes necessitates sacrifice" Sherlock replied just as sharply, his tone still lacking uncertainty. Both the younger and older man's eyes locked in a something which symbolised not fear, but quite the opposite.

"You see hidden within the unconscious is an insatiable desire for conflict. So you're not fighting me, so much as you are the human condition" Those few words, those few lines are what wavered Holmes. Delivered with so much calmness and firmness, they had the power to overwhelm and overshadow any threat, for no words held so much truth the twisted professor.

_He believes he's doing us a favour... those who trust that by inflicting such drastic and twisted events that they are truly and honestly helping humanity are the ones whom should feared most... _

The intense brief and fleeting silence that had passed spoke louder than any words either or neither of them had actually spoken.

"All I want to do is own the bullets and bandages"

_This must end _the younger thought, _and it must end NOW._

_This must be finalised, the sooner the better _the elder collected. Both their eyes stared upon each other, both pairs searching for anything even though expecting to find nothing at all.

"War on an industrious scale is inevitable. They'll do it themselves within a few years" Moriarty paused, "All I have to do is _wait_" he smiled, "I like Switzerland. They accept a man's privacy here" Holmes leaned back slightly, his eyes concentrated deeply on the chessboard or his opponent. "Particularly if he has a fortune..." the silence lingered until Moriarty stood, pulling the coat off his strong shoulders and returning it.

"Bishop takes night, check"

_Check. Almost there._

"The game is over" James interrupted, his tone only very extremely and honestly slightly unsure. "You should get that shoulder looked at"

Holmes froze. But continued to talk, "About that fortune of yours, I believe it's just insubstantially reduced" he watched as Moriarty walked to the opposite side, and then stopped.

"King to rook two"

_Where is Holmes getting with this? He has lost. This is over..._

_Moriarty doesn't understand his flaw. This is so very far from over..._

"I attended several of your lectures." They both recalled the lessons at the collage. Each through a very and entirely yet completely parallel sort of light. "It was in... Oslo when I first got a glimpse of your little notebook." He spoke calmly. He could see Moriarty's shoulder's tense in the dim light. "Red leather bound from smite on the street. Rook to king's rook three. Check" Holme's hand was on his forehead and he appeared not to be paying attention to the other man, but his eyes were following him and his every move through their corners.

Moriarty's hand moved to his coat pocket where he felt for his book, and was satisfied as he ran a finger down its spin through the expensive material.

"Bishop to rook three"

It was there. Or at least it felt like it was through the rich fine fabric.

"Its importance was not fully apparent to me until I observed your hobby for feeding the pigeons. Then it occurred, with an empire so enormous, even you must keep record of it somewhere"

Moriarty began flicking through the pages of his small notebook. His eyes widened considerable and his jaw slackened before he rather hurriedly clenched it.

"Bishop takes bishop"

"Rook to bishop four"

"I then only required the notebook itself..." his tone was only a little light and proud, yet he was fortunate that Moriarty did note sense or hear it. "You didn't make it easy" he recalled the said events. "I would need to endure a considerable amount of pain" he flinched slightly at the unwanted memories of the torture. "But the notebook was undoubtedly been coded so how then did I break the code?"

"Rook takes rook"

"Pawn takes rook"

"Bishop to bishop seven" Sherlock had moved now, and was walking toward James Moriarty.

"Queen takes knight pawn" Moriarty turned, and did the same. They were taking slow steady steps toward one another, their stares locked, their movements mimicked and mimicking.

"Does the art of domestic horticulture mean anything to you? How could a man as meticulous as you own such a book and completely neglect the flowers in his own window box? Irony bounds... never mind it is safe, in London" he said as Moriarty's hand shot out and grasped around a book of the same size and feel, however...

"Where my colleagues are making good use of it. The most formidable criminal mind in Europe just had all this money stolen by perhaps the most inept inspector in the history of Scotland Yard" he smiled, unable to hide his smug feeling.

_Miss Mary is there I'm sure, working with Lestrade and his officers. I must say Watson chose a rather competent woman. _He could image her and the rest of Scotland Yard sitting around and attempting to solve it, getting through slowly but getting through none-the-less page by page.

When he pulled it out, it looked like it always had. The exceptional crimson leather was there as was the soft bound, but once he hurriedly opened it...

Pictures were drawn, and once flicked though- they made a scene. A cartoonish scene of a fishermen fishing for a fish too big and capable for him to handle, then being eaten by it himself.

"He will be making an anonymous donation to the widows and orphans of war fund"

In the very end, there was the large fish with a rather large speech-bubble drawn on top of it reading:

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU FISH FOR!

Moriarty's demeanour slowly began to change however he had forced himself to keep calm, Holmes however noticed this and smiled through the dark knowing very well that the professor wouldn't realise.

Holmes turned around as Moriarty raised his head and glared at him with hateful yet still and deathly dark orbs, whilst his mouth stuck itself in a firm line, his lips turning white.

"Bishop to bishop eight, discover Jack"

"And incidentally mate"

Moriarty took a few steps, walking around him until he came to a still halt behind Holmes whom couldn't help but feel slightly unnerved. He then moved again and stood beside him inside, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face whilst Sherlock never leaving the balcony's edge. Holmes turned around, so that the edge short fence of the balcony was behind him, as Moriarty was in front, an unamused look on his face. Holmes flinch at the closed distance between the two but kept talking,

"I see I've injured my shoulder, would you mind?" he asked casually, holding up a lighter for Moriarty to flick to life for his cigar.

They continued to stare at each other, unnerving each other greatly whilst just attempting to plan oh so many steps ahead of one another.

"Be my pleasure" he grabbed onto the lighter and for a moment, they both held one, staring into each other's deep intimidating orbs and just wandering how this night will end. "Once we've concluded our business here" he snatched the lighter from Holmes fingers as Sherlock let them slide to his side, "it's important you know I shall endeavour to find the most creative of endings for the Doctor" Holme's eyes were wide now and he knew it.

_Not so soon. Now, now Professor, no one likes an arrogant scoundrel._

Holmes wouldn't admit it- at least for now- but the man before him intimidated him. But he refused to let that be a disadvantage. He wouldn't let it hinder him, not now, not ever.

"And his wife"

His eyes were wider than wide, though he should have expected it.

_**Holmes- **_

_His advantage: my injury._

_Damn it Holmes, not now. He will not get to Watson nor will he get to Mary. Calm your mind. If you will not win this, then neither will he. _

_My advantage: his rage._

The fire continued to illuminate light from in between them. It danced and fluttered to an absolutely inaudible tune, yet both men knew it was there. Another moment, more analysing, calculating and taking course.

_**In coming assault**__. Moriarty lights his cigar then swiftly swings his arm to punch him. __**Feral, but experienced**__. The blow would hit his stomach if he does not block. He does- his injured arm quickly blocks in defence and pushes Moriarty's away.__** Use his momentum**__, he swings his fist as hits Moriarty hard on the right cheekbone, __**to counter. **__Moriarty swings another punch but is blocked again. Then revives quickly and before Holmes had known it, a fist was swinging and hits him on his cheekbone, fracturing most likely. He stumbles back and his lower back meets with the hard edge of the balcony concrete stopper, then another fist slides down and pounds his stomach. He is momentarily taken aback. He manages to stop another blow from the right fist, however not from the left. It rocks in an upward motion and hits him with much force straight to the nose- which becomes most likely broken. He thwarts the hand back once more before it finishes and moves both fist to block another attack from below, then uses his left arm to punch his opponent square in the stomach._

_**Moriarty-**_

_**Come now. **__Holmes fist meets his face once more as his clenched hand collides with the detectives too.__** You really think you're the only one who can play this game?**_

_**Trap arm. Target weakness. Follow with hit-maker. **__And he does so. Trapping his opponent's injured arm, pounding his with a fist then following with a personalised hit created to cause maximum damage._

_**Holmes-**_

_Ahh, there we find the boxing champion of Cambridge. His arm is locked and trapped. He finds himself in more pain than imaginable but still attempts to free himself. He is swung as his lower back meets with the opposite lower concrete edge._

_**Moriarty-**_

_**Competent, but predictable. **__His opponent is hurt and damaged. His cannot wait. He moves his arm quickly in the aim of a punch but is blocked for the other, whilst he dodges the next. __**Now, allow me to reply. **__More hits are thrown, however none reaching their intended target._

_**Holmes-**_

_**Arsenal running dry. Adjust strategy. **__He blocks Moriarty's fist for a moment and tries to thrown one himself. He is block by the professor's other hand and thrown back. His opponent's arms reach for his neck and began to strange him. His arms act out of instinct and attempt to pry the fingers of his neck before he dies of strangulation or loss of oxygen. He is thrown several against the wall as the other acts._

_**Moriarty-**_

_**Wound taking its toll. **__The detective moves and stomps on the adversary's foot, breaking or fracturing a toe or two._

_**Holmes-**_

_**As I feared. Injury makes defence untenable. **__He throws a fist but receives two in return, in both his stomach and upper head. His shoulder pains immensely, he realises he could not go on very long. He swings another swift blow but misses, as the other man takes it to his advantage. _

_**Moriarty-**_

_He pulls him close then adds immense pressure on the wound, no doubt causing seemingly undying pain. He shoves the detective down so he has a grip on the wounded man. With that he swings another blow to his back, bringing the man in his hold almost crumbling down and out of breath._

_**Holmes-**_

_**Prognoses- increasingly negative.**__ A strong large knee meets his stomach. He is then pulls swiftly and rather painfully to the edge of the upper tier where a blow hits his face in rage, and he is elbowed and in great suffering pain. He is then pushed of, undeniable death awaiting him._

"Let's not waste any of each other's time. We both know how this ends"

_Conclusion: inevitable._

They were brought back to the world of the living both still staring at one another. A light laugh and smile fluttered on the evil professor's lips.

_Unless..._

The professor's smile and laughter dies and is replaced with shock as he sees that Holmes had come to a different conclusion. A large grin graced his face and his large eyes lit up.

_I must be mad._

There was a rustling sound on the other side, but both geniuses. Holme's cigarette was still being lit, the flame of the lighter still clear and so very there. In one swift and unthoughtful movement, Sherlock blew on the fire and watched quickly as small burning fire crystals were blown onto Moriarty's face. His eyes flew shut tightly and that very split second of vulnerability was all that the detective needed. He hurriedly planted both his arms around the twisted man's neck and raced backwards...

His back met the edge. This would all come to an end. Just one more step... when-

The door of the balcony swung open.

Before Holmes stood Watson.

He met his eyes. One pair conveyed sincerity and sincerity whilst the other was wide with obvious fear.

_NO HOLMES!_

_I'm sorry old chap, forgive me._

And with that, Sherlock Holmes the greatest detective in all of London fell into what most likely his very death.

**Longest chapter I've written yet! Did you enjoy?**

**Working on the next part, hopefully will post in a few hours depending on reviews!**

**And how early I have to get up tomorrow!**

**X. Rose**


	8. Chapter 8

**Writing this made me cry but I do hope you enjoy it! I've written two chapter in a day and I'm starting the third right now! Only because otherwise I won't be able to post until next Friday :O**

Rescue IIIIIIII

My heart stopped. I could feel my blood run cold and my pulse run miles. My eyes widened and my jaw fell as my hand began to tremble. I watched in utter horror and fear as Holmes began to back up so that his back was against the veranda concrete fence and send me a look of complete apology and sincerity.

_HOLMES!_

My mind had screamed. It told me to move, to run, to stop this, but I was frozen. I looked so deeply into his sad, apologetic eyes and forced my own eyes to stay open as he closed his for the final time. His feet had slid of the ground along with Moriarty's as they both fell over the barrier. My mind processed what was happening quickly and in a second's time I was exactly where they were a moment ago, but all I received was a loud splashing of what had to be icy almost frozen water.

"HOLMES!" I yelled, but it was to no avail. He was gone, and I was too late. He was gone _because _I was too late. My hands clutched the hedge until my knuckles turned a deathly pale white. I felt my heart shattering into a million pieces, most of it crumbling down to its demise with Sherlock. My eyes began to water my orbs were still wide. I only continued to stare at the ravaging falls beneath me... being able to do nothing else. I was not even able to move or twist my stare onto another place- because I'll I saw was Sherlock Holme's death, and so that was what I continued to see. My nails and fingers dug into the concrete so hard that I felt warm blood trickling down their edges, no doubt staining the enclosure.

But I didn't care right now.

Not about anything.

Put a circus next to me, I wouldn't notice. Make the orchestra play their loudest piece, I wouldn't notice. Thrust a gun into my skull and threaten to fire, my eyes would still be locked into the wretched sight of where the greatest detective of all time fell to his death, along with the most evil and twisted criminal. Holmes had brought him down, it was what he wanted- but it had come at a price. Why? Why did he have to be so damned heroic! Why couldn't he just let the filthy scoundrel get away for once! We've already stopped the war! Why did he have to give his own god damned life for it!

I felt tears gather at my eyelashes but again, I could not bring myself to move an inch. My hands were still fisted around the sharp concrete edges so firmly they had begun to go numb. In fact, my entire body had begun to go numb. Whether it was of the overwhelming pain of watching my best and closest friend die because I was too late to save him, or of the immense snow and cold, I did not know. Nor did I care.

I took absolutely nothing into account. I wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to climb over the edge of the veranda, having held on whilst the other madman crumbled to his death, and treat it as nothing but a sick twisted joke. I wanted nothing more than to know that he was alive...

At this moment, fire a bullet into my chest and I would find it only to hard to believe that it mattered. My knees threatened to buckle, but I managed to stay upright, my will to do so however was decreasing rapidly.

My mind knew it was over. I knew, logically, that Moriarty was gone- dead. And I knew logically that so was Holmes, for he w ate one who brought him to his death himself. But my heart though- well that was something completely different.

My heart shook and trembled at the thought of losing my confidant- my brother. I would break over and over again whenever I thought about never being able to see him again.

I wanted to do nothing more at the damned moment than to collapse to my knees, crawl into a dark corner and- cry. Holmes would have had a laugh about that one I'm sure. I could almost hear his voice rung in my ear telling me not to be so 'absurd'.

I released a hitched, pathetic breath as I was unable to stop more tears from flowing through my orbs down to my cheeks and past my chin. Again, I couldn't mind any less and ignored them. I closed my eyes for a short moment and thought about what just happened, for I was still unable to register everything...

Holmes was gone.

He died saving all of Western Civilisation.

The thought of him being remembered s a hero made me chuckle darkly. He wouldn't want that, for whatever reason, I would never know. But what I do know is that even though he wouldn't or more so _couldn't _care a single bit less, he would be missed.

I only wished he didn't have to be.

I would give literally anything just for him to miraculously appear beside me and laugh and poke jokes at me for how much of a wreck I've become in just a few short minutes.

I had to move, to get out of the cold or I would freeze to death, I knew that all too well. But for some reason, my limbs had become unresponsive as had my mind. I kept uncontrollably playing over the distressing look in his large chocolate orbs... another crystal tear slid down my face and finally, my fingers begun to unclutch the barrier.

I moved my hands back, but what I didn't notice was that without the barrier I would have no support what to ever. My knees began to fall beneath and I would have hit the ground if it were not for the arm that clutched my shoulder and kept my upright.

I turned in surprise and saw Mycroft beside me. His eyes were filled with poignancy and a pure heart-rending touch. I watched as I single tear glided down the side of his face, yet like me just before, he did nothing to remove it. He released a sigh and forced himself off the heart-wrenching sight and I was sure he had cleared his mind off the tragic demise of his younger brother.

What happened next wasn't what I had expected.

He cleared his throat and without so much as a second glance, pulled me into a soft, calming embrace. It took me by surprise at first; however I returned it, understanding very-well what he meant. We were both grieving for the loss of our dear brother, one by blood and the other by bond, whilst having not much of a way of showing it.

I looked at his eyes and released a breath; they were hard, cold and showed no emotion what so ever. Even the tear had disappeared. The sudden change of his demeanour reminded me of Sherlock and _his _way of dealing with emotions. I suppose they are just like each other in more ways than they realise...

"We must be leaving. The summit is over." And with that he turned on his heel and left. I cleared my throat once more to collect myself; it was time to leave...

Holmes was dead. I could not bring him back. But I could remember him, and forever I would.

I was about to leave when a sudden thought struck me terribly,

_This was why he had apologised._

_He had asked for my forgiveness because he knew that this night was most likely going to be his very last... _

"Oh dear Sherlock, I forgive you, but I will never forget you"

**R&R**

**HOPE YOU ENJOYED!**


	9. Chapter 9

**ONE MORE CHAPTER. My wrist is killing me. I've been typing for about four to five hours straight and it's almost two in the morning. I will try to pit up the last chapter if I can...**

Rescue IIIIIIIII

Watson stood at the podium. His eyes gazed around the crowd, miserable, damned and all dressed in nothing but the darkest of dark, pitch black. There was the whole of Scotland Yard both standing and sitting, all with grief struck features. He knew they were all close to Holmes in some way, even if it was so different to the others. His eyes scanned around and met Lestrade's whom had a rather upset look drawn on his face just as Clarky had. Even though no one had cared to admit it, they and Holmes were closer than any bothered to admit. Looking around again he saw the only so many people that his best friend had helped, whether it was through figuring out whom had abducted their children, or proving them innocent and saving them from a life time in jail, or even by just providing some simple yet extremely helpful words. The other's here, he noticed, were also nobles of high classes that he was sure Sherlock had helped in some way- most likely not even through cases. In the front row Mary sat tears very evident in her eyes. She was not too close to the detective, but due to strong contrary belief, they both knew that she had come to like him and care for him. Beside her to the right was Mrs. Hudson. Her grey hair making it easy to spot her through the fake rich white wigs of others. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief very often, as Watson was sure that the tears were refusing to stop spilling through her orbs just as they had Watson's when he witnessed the death. Continuing down the row there sat Mycroft. At a single glance, many would deem his the rich, noble and uncaring sibling who was simply forced to be here. But the doctor knew quite different.

He knew that Mycroft cared for his younger sibling possibly as much a Watson did. He also knew that he could not let it show, in any way. His mask was just as tightly and securely placed on as the younger Holme's brother had been when confronted with his emotions. It was obvious to John though that the older man was grieving inside. His heart was trembling lightly just as Watson's would whenever he thought of his bond brother's demise. He was grieving, just silently. And he preferred it that way. But one day, he would need someone. Someone to tell him that his younger brother was really gone, and that he was never coming back. His eyes narrowed when he saw some people he didn't even have a clue of, such as a strange old man in the third last row with a large beard and his hat drawn forth to hide his eyes... But he knew that they had probably cared for Holmes just as much as the rest. Beside the older Holmes sibling sat his servants, Stanley included. The old and aging man had a sad, grief stricken touch to his demeanour, though it was obviously to be expected.

There were so many faces. So many lives that Holmes had changed, so many lives that Holmes had _saved._ So many people that just expected him to walk through the ceremonial doors of his own funeral and laugh and joke about how and why they all looked exceedingly miserable. So many glances at the door that would be disappointed when the detective doesn't come striding in- in some sort of strange laughable manner. Though they hoped, and even though he knew it was hopeless, so did he.

There wasn't much chatter, just mainly silence. Everybody was here, and everybody was _a lot._ People had come up to do speeches, people who asked and people who _were _asked. There would only be a few until Lestrade's on behalf of Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hudson, though he knew she feared she would probably break down, then it would be a few small though deeply appreciated words from Mary, Stanley, whom surprisingly asked, Mycroft Holmes then finally, John Watson himself.

John brought his mind to the present. He was seated behind Mary since he figured that Mycroft deserved his seat since he was his brother and unlike Watson, would never get to visit him memory again, and if he did it would be rather rare.

A small boy whom had asked to give a speech was at his heels on the podium, speaking words so deep and true...

"Mr Holmes helped me and my family. I realise that I am no noble, nor are my siblings or mother, and we couldn't offer him anything much but he helped anyway. Mr. Holmes saved us, he gave us hope. He helped us put aside our past and bring forth our future. Mr. Holmes is, was and always will be the greatest and most kindest detective England has ever known..." there was a light applause, and before anyone knew it, Lestrade was up at the microphone, with Clarky by his side.

"Holmes, he'd always been a strange detective. His methods were odd, and they kept us puzzled and confused, yet if it weren't for that one very unusual man we'd probably be in war. We probably would have been in war _ages _ago. But it was thanks to this man, it was thanks to Sherlock Holmes that we are here all safe and sound today, and for that we thank you Holmes..." he turned towards the empty coffin and nodded along with Clarky as if he were there himself.

Mrs Hudson was on the podium next, and to much of all of our surprise, she didn't break down.

"Sherlock Holmes, though it's strange to admit it myself was always sort of like a... son to me" her eyes watered again, "yes he was strange, odd, unusual, but he was probably the most kind hearted and clever soul anyone will ever come across..." tears ran down her face as she took a seat beside Mary whom placed an arm around her for a moment, then stood up herself.

"Sherlock Holmes was a brave man. He fought with honour, dignity, and hope" she began. She had surprised me by her words greatly, "it's a tragic loss to this world that he has gone. He is someone I never truly understood and will become someone I'll never truly understand... but I know one thing, and that's he deserves so much more than he gets." She turned to the coffin and closed her eyes for a moment, "Thank you Sherlock"

Stanley had begun, his voice was strained and his eyes deep in thought.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I only have one thing to say this evening. Sherlock Holmes was a person with great honour that gave his life to save us. He will forever be that missing piece to fill that vacant hole in our hearts- even though none were very close to him. But he will live in within our heart none-the-less..."

I could feel my eyes tear up slightly but kept my composition. Mycroft had started his speech, and I wanted to hear with great passion what he had to say.

"Sherly" I smiled lightly at the name, "was never a man to back down. He was never one to give up or quite. He was strong, honest and kind. He never got enough credit, and when he did, he deserved so much more. I ask of you a moment of silence to remember this great man, a man of justice, care, and peace, a moment to remember my brother"

Everyone paused and closed their eyes for a minute or so, and by that time, Mycroft was of the stage and it was Watson's turn.

He stepped onto the podium and cleared his throat.

"When I first met Sherlock, I rendered him the strangest being in all eternity. I remember how he fired shots into the wall of our flat merrily because he was bored" he saw some faces smile, including Mrs. Hudson's and continued. "And sometimes, he would even wake us up at the dead of the night with his odd violin playing. I had grown frustrated with him time and time again, but all he would say would be either "Watson old boy I only suppose you've grown old" or when confronted about his strange behaviour and why he does it says "I don't choose how I behave, my behaviour chooses how I behave" which usually had me lost." A few light hearted chuckles rung out. "But no matter his demeanour or his behaviour, Sherlock Holmes was a fairness, righteousness and integrity. I only have one final single thing to say: Sherlock Holmes played the Game for the sake of playing the game. And a few short nights ago, England lost its most brilliant man, the world lost its most intriguing detective, I lost my best friend...

A few short nights ago, we all lost Sherlock Holmes"

He watched from the third seat to the back. His ace was filled with grey facial hair and a laughably long beard. He drew his hat further and grinned like the Cheshire cat.

_They missed me..._

_Well I do suppose it's because I'm supposed to be dead..._

_Nevertheless, it's quite... touching..._

He stood up and hurried out the door once the service was over, knowing very well he had caught the doctor's eye, but disappeared before he could speculate.

_All in good time Watson old boy. _

_All in good time._

**WHAT DID YOU THINK?**

**R&R FOR A SEQUEL!**


	10. The End?

**7 DAYS, OVER 35 REVIEWS, 10 CHAPTERS AND GOD KNOW HOW MANY ALERTS AND FAVOURITES AFTER COMES: THE END?**

**LAST CHAPTER! THREE CHAPTERS IN ONE DAY!**

Rescue IIIIIIIIII

Mary sat in the sitting room. Her husband was typing away at the type-writer again... she sighed. It had been an about an hour since they had returned from the funeral, and the sun was quickly setting. She was about to go and check on John, knowing how hard the detective's death hit him, she stood up, setting her warm cup of tea down. Just as she began to move there was a ring on the doorbell...

_Who could it be?_

She opened the door once she reached it and was greeted by the sight of a strange man with a package. He had quite a bit of facial hair but she couldn't quite place a finger on who t was even though he seemed strangely recognisable, if only he would lift his top hat a little maybe she could see his eyes-

"A package for John Watson" he said. Now it bugged her like a killer. His voice was rough and unusual and he wore a grey suite, waistcoat and tailcoat to match. She was about to thank him when she took the fair sized yet slightly small brown-paper cover package but he hurried off into the busy streets of London before she could get a word out. She thought deeper for a moment before-

_He isn't the usual mail boy... perhaps someone had paid him to deliver this... but whom?_

Her thoughts then wandered off to the strange package in her arms. Shaking her head of all thoughts, she walked up to her husband's study and heard him mutter the words: "The End."

"John darling, there's a package here for you" she smiled at him. She saw his still saddened face and hugged his seated figure around the shoulders. "Don't be upset John, you know- I miss him in my own way too. We're going to Brighton, Holme's would have wanted us to have fun" she smiled at him and kissed his forehead. He smiled back,

"He would have wanted to come with us"

They both shared a good hearted laugh before Mary announced that she was going to finish her tea down stairs and that John should join her when he was ready.

He smiled again and took hold of the package left at the corner of his desk. Roughly pulling the brown paper off and throwing it to the side, his eyes widened considerably.

Inside was the 'invigorating contraption' that his best friend had without a doubt stole from the older Holme's mansion. Standing up at top speed he hurried through the door with the mechanism and called for Mary, asking her who had delivered it.

Meanwhile, none-other than the supposedly dead Sherlock Holmes sat up from Watson's study armchair. He pulled down the zipper and revealed his ecstatic smile.

_Dear Watson, I can't believe you thought I had died... then again, I am a fine actor. _

He chuckled to himself then moved across to the typewriter, when his smile widened drastically as he changed:

The End

To

The End?

**THE END?**

**R&R IF YOU DON'T WANT IT TO BE, R&R FOR SEQUEL!**

**TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT!**


	11. SEQUEL NOTIFICATION!

SEQUEL NOTIFICATION!

HI THERE XD

A few of you had asked me to inform you if there was to be a sequel to this story- and there is!

I'm working on its fifth chapter and hopefully I'll reach past ten before the new school semester starts!

Make sure to check it out if you have a second, you never know, you might enjoy it! Please review and/or message me with any of your brilliant ideas- I'm all ears!

I will be happy to inform you that I do update regularly, within a day or two usually!

Leave a comment or reply if you have any interesting or creative responses,

THANKS!

X. Rose


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